Of Dragons
by DanishCookie
Summary: Untouched. Unsullied. Unscathed. The lands of Westeros and Essos have never known the scorching, freezing influence of the Daedric Princes. Yet, their people represent a wellspring of untapped power; every vice, sin and faith embodies an opportunity for Oblivion. Who better, then, to source that power and spread their dark influence than the greatest hero of all, the Dragonborn?
1. Chapter 1 - The Sun

Roland felt the sand first.

Hot, coarse beads stung the soft pink of his lips, digging into the flesh between his fingers. The grains clung to him, burning dry yet wet all the same. Its taste filled Roland's mouth, clawing at his tongue, but as he made to cough, to let the sand fall from between his teeth, he quickly found he couldn't.

Roland tasted the salt next.

A burning wave spilled from within the Nord, and he found himself unable to breathe. His nose felt as if it were on fire, a pale, white liquid flowing quickly from his nostrils. Roland coughed once, twice, thrice, the ocean's water spraying forth like a beggar's imitation of the Thu'um.

The sand tore at his eyes, the water burning his throat. Roland clawed at salt-soaked cloth and cotton, searching for something, _anything_, to dull the pain, blur the sting. But finally, after what felt like an eternity of hurt and a smothering of fire, he could breathe again, one pale cheek pressed firmly into the sand beneath him.

Roland whimpered, sobbing at the pain.

* * *

It was near midday when he stirred again. Roland made to open his eyes, only to meet with glaring, stinging sunlight. He winced, squeezing his eyes shut.

Moments passed before the Nord dared open them again. He could, however, feel the heat, sweltering in waves across his skin. It was hot; far hotter than anything he was accustomed to, and even as he opened his eyes – slowly, slowly, lest they burn once more – he knew that wherever he was, was far, _far_ from home.

Far from Skyrim. Far from his manse in the woods of Falkreath.

Farther still, quite possibly, from anywhere he had ever been before.

As Roland gazed up at that harsh sun, glaring down upon the man as if loathing his very existence, he knew _something_ was different. He could feel it, feel it inside his own body and mind as a rush of blood flooded his cheeks, shivers passing through his spine.

The _sun_ itself was different. Somehow, somehow, as if the celestial door to Aetherius itself, the conduit to all things arcane, was…

Gone? Or changed somehow?

That, Roland did not know.

Regardless, he supposed, it was time he had gathered his bearings. The sun's simmering heat, so foreign and unfamiliar, drained his strength by the moment, and Roland held no desire for the coarse sand upon which he lay to be his untimely grave…

Perhaps untimely wasn't so apt a descriptor, but regardless, he didn't want to die here, and especially not of heat exhaustion – his Nord body wasn't well acclimated to warmer, hotter climates. Roland rose to his feet, groaning and shuddering as pain shot through his limbs, bones creaking and cracking as if an unoiled dwemer machine.

His clothes were torn – Roland noticed this as he took inventory of himself and his body. The leathers of his armor, underneath tattered cloth and shriveled wool, had turned brittle, evidently soured by salt water and sand, and his cloak fared no better, its forest-green remnants billowing in the breeze behind him. His leather boots were cut and scratched, his sea-worthy gloves falling apart at the seams. Both were caked in sand. The Nord took a deep breath, hunching over as his hands felt for his knees. A wave of fatigue, weariness, fell upon him as he took site of where he had landed.

It was, obviously, a beach, water rising and falling by the tide. Littered about the beach was a panoply of debris and flotsam – wooden planks and shards shattered into many pieces, mostly, though Roland could spy the odd shard of metal or two. While there was no sign of life – or death – besides himself, he did notice an overturned chest, tall and wide, its wood soaked dark and rotted. Half of its lid was shorn off, and what was left of its contents spilled out upon the white-gold sands. Coins – golden, the face of the emperor himself emblazoned upon one side – and sat upon their pitiful pile was a longsword, simple steel, its blade, etched with the sigil of the Imperial Legion, already showing signs of corrosion.

_Sword_.

Panic rushed through him, and Roland's hands flew to his side, his hip, searching for his own blade. They found none, feeling only tattered cloth, leather, pouches, and half-rusted buckles. Shame. He had loved his own longsword like a father would their child – he'd miss its ebony edge, alloyed within steel and moonstone, its grip and weight perfectly balanced for a man like him.

Likewise, his armor, and the large chest that would have contained it, was nowhere to be found. This was, of sorts, an even greater loss – Breton full plate was hard, so hard, for one not of a noble house of High Rock to acquire, and he had spent quite a fortune on his own, custom-fit set.

Regardless, Roland supposed, he'd need to get a move-on. While he wasn't _completely_ unarmed, per se, a weapon would be nice, and while the Nord would have liked to stick close to the wreckage and find what else he could given time to search, he knew that debris like this often attracted unwanted visitors. Predators. Pirates.

Making his way to the chest, Roland pocketed what few coins he could carry, and grasped the imperial longsword in his hands, getting a better look at it. It was still sharp, mostly, its crossguard and pommel simple and sweet enough. Its grip, however, was in a bad way, its leather wrappings patched and melting. It hadn't a scabbard, unfortunately.

"Gonna have to carry the damn thing," Roland muttered, switching the blade to his left hand. A quick look over the rest of the wreckage showed that there wasn't much else to salvage – possibly only a small portion of the total haul, the rest probably lost to sea.

… Though, _which_ sea was a pertinent question, the Nord supposed. He screened his eyes over the beach and saw not the cold, frigid waters of the northern oceans but the deep, warm blue waters of the tropics. The light summer breezes that swept his braided hair were not, in fact, the sharp and dry winds of winter.

Last he remembered, his ship had been off the coast of High Rock, by the Breton city of Northpoint. Given his now rather _odd_ placement, as well as the wholly unfamiliar, foreign sun far above, Roland confirmed, with great confusion and more than a bit of fear, that he was quite possibly no longer on Tamriel – perhaps not even on Nirn!

With a sigh, a grumble, and a groan and a wince as he stepped on a particularly sharp rock, Roland turned from the ocean, wondering what plane of Oblivion the Divines – or the Princes themselves – had seen fit to dump him on now. He didn't recognize any of it, and Roland was almost completely sure he hadn't errantly wandered into Dagon's fiery little portion of Oblivion.

After all, he knew for a fact that great, big pyramids were _not _a terrestrial feature of the Prince of Change's fancy.

* * *

Roland hadn't made it far along the coast before he spotted another ship, anchored in the sea. It was of a peculiar design, smaller than the great trading carracks and galleons of the Empire, yet larger still than the longships of Skyrim. It sails were triangular, more indicative of the swift elven watercutters than the square-rigs he was accustomed to, yet its hull was patchwork, utilitarian – as if put together for a singular job that _wasn't_ to look pretty and grand.

As the light wind swept across his uncovered head, providing brief reprieve from the oppressive heat, Roland tightened his hilt-up grasp on the rusty imperial sword, his gloved fingers wrapped tightly around the blade just beneath the cross-guard. He couldn't be sure whether the ship's occupants were friendly or not, but an approach was worth a try – better that than wandering along the coast forever. His stomach rolled from hunger and he licked his tongue over dry, cracked lips, thirst setting in. The foreign sun was still high in the sky, its heat almost unbearable to the Nord.

"No crew," he muttered, trudging along the beach. Not that he could see, anyhow, but the deck, even from a distance, looked to be empty. Closer, though, were half a dozen little rowboats, their oars neatly placed upon pots and cloth sacks.

Sacks with _food_. Closer and closer he got, Roland could see their contents spilling forth. Fish, bread however stale, and he could even see a bit of fruit, warm oranges and yellows, in one. He thought it odd – fruits spoiled rather quickly on the sea, but they were fresh, as if only purchased, or taken, rather recently – but another pang of hunger distracted him, as he clutched a gloved hand at his stomach. The sailors themselves were nowhere to be found, but no matter, Roland thought to himself – with just a bit of luck he could…

* * *

Malko, son of Yando, thought himself to be one of the more _veteran_ pirates throughout Slaver's Bay. He'd led raids on untold numbers of villages, towns, and even cities across the coasts of Essos, plundering and pillaging anything and everything that could be plundered and pillaged. If one could put a price to it, he'd stolen it, sold it, or fucked it.

Or any combination of the three.

So as a pirate of such… _eminence_, Malko thought he'd seen it all. He'd seen noble wives of great Westerosi houses reduced to whimpering bed-whores; he'd known of fearsome, feral bloodriders of the Dothraki sold into the fighting pits, only to die unglamorously to some half-cooked Braavosi dancer. For every man he'd killed, he'd sold a dozen more to the mines, the galleys, the brothels, and the courts. But he supposed, as such a well-traveled man would, eventually there'd be something even _he_ had never encountered before.

And now, flanked by two dozen of his fifty-odd strong crew, Malko, son of Yando, realized that for all his slaving, and all his stealing, he'd never yet seen a man steal from _him_.

Yet, there the man was, dressed in some strange, dark green cloak, pulling at some of Malko's most recent haul. Some of it had already fallen away, peels of oranges and lemons having been torn apart piece by piece.

As he and his slaver crew approached, the man suddenly turned, snarling. Malko took a good look at the man – he was impossibly pale, paler than any man he'd seen before in Slaver's Bay, golden locks of hair swept aside by wind, stuck to glimmering skin by cakes of sand and dried salt-water. A pair of deep green eyes looked over his crew, hard and fierce.

Harder and fiercer than any half-drowned man should be, for that was what he was. The strange man raised a sword, and Malko couldn't help but scoff – the blade was more rust than steel, its thin length and double-edge indicative of Westerosi origin. As if in response the men of his crew raised their own weapons – good Yunkish and Meereneese sabres and scimitars, and even the odd falchion or two, to cleave and cut through flesh and chain alike.

Malko stepped forwards, hands at his hips. "Who is this strange man, so desperate as to steal from pirates and slavers?" he demanded, showing off a pearl-white smile. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? Should I have my man here give you some wine before we put you in chains?"

His first mate stepped forth, a man of similar age and complexion to Malko himself. Malko trusted the man – as much as one could a pirate, at least, but there was some merit to surviving all that Malko himself had. "He looks strong, for a drowning, hungry man. The Pits are always looking for more Westerosi."

The pale man only stepped back, raising his sword higher as more of Malko's crew approached. The pirate watched carefully, narrowing his eyes – with every movement, he grew surer that this strange man, wherever he hailed from, was trained. "We will see. Maybe the salt mines?"

The first pirate to reach the man was a young boy, only five and ten and freshly joined from Astapor. With a shrill, poor excuse of a warcry the boy charged, raising his scimitar high. While the rest of his men joined the attack, Malko only watched closely, carefully.

He always kept an eye out for good, quality product, and this would be no different. Malko, an appraising merchant at heart, watched as the man crouched low, blade held firmly by the grip in his right hand while the left rested underneath, open palm facing towards his chest, the tip of the blade striking out.

A moment later the boy fell with a strangled cry, scarlet blood pouring from a pierced throat. The strange man, despite evident fatigue and hunger, wasted no time in twirling his blade around to cut down yet another of Malko's crew. The others, seeing already two of their own fallen, stayed their charge, holding off for just a moment.

Not so for their foe, who pressed his own attack. He struck aside a Volantene pirate's sabre, the weapon flying from the man's grip as he fell back, headless. Two more slavers struck out, the first slashing from left to right, only to find his scimitar chambered and locked, and a cold, hard shoulder pushed into his chest. Even as he fell to the sand, blood sprayed from a seeping gash as the pale man cut upwards, catching the second pirate's blade at the crest of its arc. The man was cleaved in two not a blink later, right shoulder to left hip.

Malko was about ready to call his men off – not ten seconds had passed, yet already five of his crew had been slaughtered like goats! Yet, even as he raised his hand another pirate attacked, thinking himself smarter for having flanked his foe. Blade raised high in both hands, the slaver – some arrogant fool from Yunkai, if Malko recalled correctly – attacked, fully intending to strike down the strange, pale man.

It wasn't to be so. Malko watched as the man twirled around, one hand held firmly around the blade as he caught the pirate's sword above him. A powerful kick sent the Yunkish pirate flying back, legs spread as he fell helplessly to the sand. The strange man gave no quarter, his rusted, bloodied longsword striking like a snake towards the pirate's—

_Gods above_, Malko winced terribly, hearing the slaver's womanly shriek. He tried, and failed, to pay his remaining crew's visible discomfort no heed as the pale man turned around once more, somehow still ready to kill more of Malko's men.

He raised his hand again, but he needn't have to. His crew already seemed unwilling to keep fighting – a problem he'd have to _fix_ later. For now though he approached, smiling his pearly whites once more, though now a bit flawed.

"The Pits it is, then," Malko turned briefly to his first mate, who only frowned. "And I think that is enough. I see no profit in this battle for anyone."

Malko held his hands own to the man, almost as if welcoming him. The man stayed back regardless, blade at the ready, face held in a snarling grimace. He could tell the man was panting, tired – still hungry and thirsty, even. All Malko needed to do was appeal to those bodily needs, tire the man out.

"There is no need for more bloodshed," Malko said, still smiling. "You killed six of my men, but eighteen still breathe." He threw in a wink for added measure. "And six and twenty still come. They will be here soon."

The man said nothing, but Malko _knew_ he understood his words. The slaver captain could see traces of doubt, uncertainty, creeping onto an otherwise impassive aspect. Fearsome as this strange western fighter was, no parched and starving man could take on half of a hundred by himself.

Neither, too, was Malko willing to lose more men – new recruits, replacement crewmembers were expensive, even though he hoped his newest quarry would fetch a handsome price indeed.

"You cannot kill fifty of us – not like that," Malko tried to appease the man, taking one more step forwards. "You surrender to us, and we will give you food, drink." He was somewhat certain they'd still had some stale, moldy bread leftover from their last catch.

The strange, pale man finally spoke. "And chains."

"Well, yes," Malko chuckled darkly. "We are slavers, and you killed six of my crew." His toothy smile had all but disappeared. "I paid them gold. They spent that gold. Now they are dead, and I want my gold back."

Another step, another snarl in return. Malko absentmindedly thumbed at the jeweled ring around his little finger, matching the strange man's glare. But no words were exchanged – the man only stared, blade held up.

The blade wavered. Malko smiled. He stepped forwards again, balling his ringed fist tightly.

Not two steps and his foe whispered something, so low the slaver couldn't even hear. Before he could even question it, however, something red hit him, _engulfed _him.

And Malko knew fear.

It gripped him, _seized_ him, crimson lightning coursing through his veins and dancing along his dark flesh. He couldn't perceive it, couldn't put an image to the madness, but Malko knew terror as he had never known before, and it consumed him wholly.

It lasted only a moment – a terrifying moment, but only a moment regardless before those waves of crimson fear incarnate washed away like the moon-tide. But when Malko, seasoned veteran of countless slaver runs and coastal raids, came to, he saw only the glint of steel and blood as a sword whipped towards his head. Malko was to die, and he closed his eyes in wait.

And yet…

Death never came.

The slaver captain slowly opened his eyes, only to find the strange man lying at his feet, knocked cold. Hunger, thirst, and the sun's cruel heat had finally caught up to him.

Malko searched for his voice, but found it difficult to retrieve, only coming to him several seconds later. "Pick him up," he ordered to his crew, not at all liking how his own voice faltered like that of a virgin boy's. "Take him to the ship. This one will be worth a fortune."

Three of his men approached the body warily, two grabbing the man by the head and boots while the last picked up the rusty old sword, careful to avoid the blood of his recently deceased comrades. Malko turned away, eager to return to his ship, but took one glance back.

Something, _something odd_, told him – no, _whispered_ in his ear like a nightingale's tittering song – that his newest slave was more, _much_ more, than met the eye.

"Fire and blood," some of his more crazed captives had oft repeated. For some odd, very odd reason, Malko could not help but remember their words.

* * *

**A/N: **Hope you guys enjoyed, and I hope I'm not too late to the GoT party, considering Season 8. Feel free to leave a review, tell me how you feel or if you have any questions.

Until next time, folks.


	2. Act 1: Chapter 2 - A Slave and His Dream

**Act 1**

_The Pits_

* * *

Roland dreamt about cheese.

Namely, a full wheel of cheese, harvested and produced from Skyrim's own Eidar cows. It sat neatly upon a table of hickory, beside a platter of braided, buttered bread and Firebrand wine. The first few days on a voyage, Roland knew, were spent with good food and good wine – after that, they'd have to rely on hard-tack and biscuits.

For a good moment, Roland worried that he'd been caught in one of Sheogorath's little phantasms. The Prince liked his cheese, after all, but he couldn't spot the Mad God anywhere.

Only a hickory table, with cheese, bread, and wine, and the cool scent of salted sea and northerly winds. He was vaguely aware that he was in a ship, rocking on the foamed waves of the Sea of Ghosts.

Roland knew he was dreaming – oily shadows danced to and fro, singing and roaring like dark, inky campfires. A sword, thick and curved, bounced on the hip of one of those shadows, its scabbard imprinted with sigils of a falling hammer and gold-bowed blade; the mark of the Alik'r.

They were on a mission, he remembered, spying a curious little brown thrush in the rafters. The party was sailing for the Iliac - the Thalmor, the elves, had strengthened their push for dominance in Hammerfell, and the Empire wanted to broker a new alliance in the west, reconnect with the old legions they'd been "forced" to "abandon."

Posturing. Positioning. Contingencies and inevitabilities. _Evgiir Unslaad._

Ever the season unending.

And, on a more personal note, Roland was searching. For someone, something. A something or someone dear to him. He couldn't remember – not in dreams, at least not this one.

But strange it was, truly, that he'd spied a little brown bird, flitting to and fro. Had it been caught on the ship, taken so far from the mainland wherein it belonged?

Or did this little songbird thrush speak for another prince, rather than that of madness?

Roland couldn't tell, couldn't know, even as that little nightingale flew to him on a pair of little wings. The walls began to melt away, the cheese and bread before him disappearing in a fit of dark, oily ink.

All that was left was the smell of salt on the sea, and the steady crash and rock of foamy white waves.

* * *

"Wake up, Westerosi."

A cool, clammy hand pressed firmly against his cheek, pulling Roland from his sleep. His eyes fluttered open, settling into a glare above him.

The hand pulled away for a moment, before returning – this time a slap, another slap, in quick succession. It left behind sticky sweat and grime.

"I said wake up!" Louder this time, the voice was quickly followed by a kick to his ribs, and Roland snarled with pain, still glaring blearily above.

He was met with a dark-skinned visage, browned pink lips settled into a nasty frown. Even without a glance Roland could feel the bite of chains, sharp steel and jagged rust, digging into his wrists and ankles. It hurt, but the feeling, the knowledge, that he had been captured by slavers, hurt more.

"I knew burning down Rothvine Manor wouldn't stop any of you," Roland muttered, to no one in particular. The slaver, menacing above him, raised a brow, his scowl deepening.

"That your home, Westerosi?" the dark man asked. "'Rothvine Manor' Is that your big, stone castle in the west?"

It was Roland's turn to raise a brow. "What'd you call me?"

"You're from Westeros, aren't you? You're a knight." The slaver ended his words by spitting on Roland, who flinched back in disgust.

"Why do you think I'm a knight?"

The slaver shook his head. "Don't try and fool me, _slave_," he said. As if Roland needed any reminding of his current predicament. "Your weapon, your sword – shitty as it is, I've seen swords like it."

He turned, pointing away to a ramshackle table, more twig than lumber. The imperial longsword was leaning against its edge, still covered in rust and blood.

"Your westerosi men in fancy armor," the slaver chuckled darkly, flourishing his hands in the air as if in mockery, "usually carry them. I would know – I've captured my fair share of those men."

Roland shrugged. "Fair enough." He wasn't a knight – not by any stretch of the imagination – but he'd humor the pirate. For now.

Said pirate pointed down to the chains and shackles clamped tightly around Roland's limbs. "You see those?"

The nord looked down. "What, my boots? You like 'em? Fashioned them myself, wild boar and—"

"Slave!" the dark man spat, emphasizing the word with a stinging slap across Roland's cheek. "That's what you are now, a slave."

"Didn't realize," Roland muttered, grimacing. "Are you going to tell me my own name now?"

The slaver grinned, showing off pearly white teeth. Roland couldn't help but scoff – how easily the man turned his emotions about.

"You have no name now, slave," he said, crouching down. The slaver's dark, brown eyes glared into Roland's own, flitting between left and right eye. "But I'll give you mine. I am Malko, son of Yando, and I am here right now because I have some questions to ask of you."

A hand went into his pockets, and pulled out a coin, gold. Roland recognized it immediately – something the pirate acknowledged with a toothy smirk.

"I have been all over the known world, Westerosi," he remarked, dark eyes glazing over the septim between his fingers. "I've seen your gold dragons and your silver stags, and I've plenty of honors and irons to line my own pockets."

"But this, this coin," the slaver continued. "I have never seen it before."

Roland was already _intimately_ familiar with the gold septim, also called _drakes_. Upon its head was engraved the visage of Tiber Septim himself; its tail the seal of Akatosh, the dragon god of time.

"It's a coin. Gold. What more do you need to know?"

Malko returned his gaze to Roland, still smirking. "It is thick – thicker than any piece of gold I have ever seen before, three times the size of a westerosi dragon." His words were lined with what Roland knew well as greed, lust for gold. "Wherever you might be from, slave, your people must be very wealthy. Would they pay well for your freedom?"

Roland shook his head. "I have no idea what you're implying." He knew full well what the slaver was implying.

Malko, too, realized this, striking Roland for a third time. The nord scowled, spitting blood before returning his glare to Malko.

It was funny, Roland thought – not three words, barely louder than a whisper, and the slaver might find himself deep in the sea a moment later, bones shattered to dust and his ship cracked like an egg. Yet, as tempting as it was to _shout_ the miser into Sithis' embrace, he saved his breath.

The ship was far out at sea, Roland could tell. He'd no desire to swim desperately to shores unknown.

"Your sword!" Malko took his attention back, thumbing back to the table upon which said sword rested. He raised the coin in his fingers again, displaying the tail end. "It bears this same mark, these same words." His fingers trailed over the Cyrodiilic words that lined the coin. "I know you westerosi have your families, your_ houses_, and their marks. This must be the mark of your own. _You are rich_."

Roland frowned. "And how do you suppose I didn't steal them?"

"Thieves," the slaver glowered, "cannot kill six pirates by themselves."

Roland was tempted, once again, to show the slaver the error behind his words, but thought better of it. "Alright. Say my… _family_ is indeed as wealthy as you say. Are you going to ransom me?"

"Ransom?" Malko snickered darkly, as if amused. "No. I am a _slaver_, not a ransomeer. I will sell you to the highest bidder."

"If you're not going to ransom me," Roland fired back. "Then why do you care about my family? About my being a… knight?"

Malko leaned back, falling onto his rear as he settled into seated position. "You are rich with gold, and you are a knight," he tittered, showing his pearly whites as his lips turned upwards. "You westerosi knights always have some story of glory and battle. If the highest bidder is to know your worth, then _I_ am to know your worth.

"So, tell me your stories. What have you done with your life, _Dragon_?" the slaver's words dripped with scorn.

"Wouldn't suppose you'd believe me if I said I've _killed_ a dragon?"

"Ha!" Malko jeered, sneering at Roland. "Believe me, Westerosi, I won't believe half the things you will say. But the _buyers_ might, so long as you don't claim to have killed a dragon."

Several, in fact, Roland thought. Rather, many – dozens upon dozens of Alduin's ilk, and the World Eater himself. But, he supposed, the slaver wouldn't believe him. Not here, not now.

"I am waiting."

Roland frowned. "Give me a moment, I'll try and remember something."

"Try to lie, you mean?"

Roland only glared back, much to Malko's mocking amusement. Of course, many of his deeds might have seemed otherworldly to the common man. World-ending dragons, vampires fixated on centuries-old prophecies, any number of the little _errands_ he'd ran for the Daedric Princes…

Perhaps… perhaps there was _something_. An emperor, a den of killers, and a discontent noble…

"There was an emp… a _king_," Roland caught himself. "Bunch of assassins wanted to kill him, some other nobles wanted the poor man dead. Paid a lot of money."

"And you stopped them?"

"Yes," Roland lied. "Twenty of them, all vicious murderers and killers. Snuffed out their plan – even dropped a big rock on one of them. During a wedding."

Roland chuckled, despite himself. "Nearly scared the poor bride dead. Wished I had – by Azura's tits, she was a _cunt_."

The slaver had leaned closer, still smirking. "So you killed _thirty_ assassins, by yourself, and saved your king?" Malko sneered, nose wrinkling. Roland could see sweat dance from his pores. "Bested them all in combat, and then killed an innocent little bride for the hell of it?"

He raised a brow, catching the slaver's lies. "I… I suppose that's accurate."

"And now you are in Slaver's Bay, exiled even though you saved your king, because you murdered a noble girl?"

"Sure."

Malko chuckled. "I know your worth, _Westerosi_," the slaver's words were marked with contempt. "And my bidders will too. Now, rest. We'll be at the auctions the day after tomorrow."

The slaver rose to his feet, visibly wincing as bones creaked and cracked. He gifted Roland with two final little slaps, leaving behind drops of clammy sweat and grime upon his cheek before leaving.

Roland stared at Malko's back as he left, listening as his booted footsteps quieted and quieted. "Horker-born snowback," he muttered, before returning his glare to the chains around his wrists. "Namira's cunt, you don't know how much I want to kill you." Yet, despite all the scorn, the sneers, the jeering and mockery, Roland knew the slaver feared him – they all did.

How could they not? After all, one word was all it had taken. Two words still remained, but one word was enough to terrify the man who called himself "Malko, son of Yando."

_Faas_.

* * *

"Fear."

Roland awoke with a start, eyes wide open. He'd heard a voice, smooth like sultry silk. That voice – he knew it, knew it well. _Too well_, green eyes scanning left and right in a desperate hunt to find a voice that shot through his heart, sending chill ice down his spine. A voice that had kept him awake through many a night. Fear—

"Of the unknown."

He was back on the ship – not the slave ship, but rather the grand imperial galleon that carried him to Hammerfell. What were once dark, oily shadows of men had become clear aspects of sailors, fighters, and diplomats alike; legionaries, Alik'r warriors, and Breton noblemen laughed and cheered and sang and drank, their ship-board quarters lit alight with warm heart and steady song.

Before him, sat neatly upon a table of hickory, was a wheel of Eidar cheese, a bottle of Firebrand wine, and warm, braided, buttered bread. And across that was...

"My little Nightingale. Oh, how I've _missed_ you."

Dread filled Roland's heart, pulsing black with fear – _faas_, perhaps a bit of _maar_.

And, he wouldn't deny it, never – he also felt for a… his… _a_ _monah_. Mother.

"Nocturnal," Roland breathed, gaze settling on the Daedric Prince before him. Her head and shapely form was hidden, barely so, under her usual cowl and gown. Black eyes, black as moonless nights, gazed warmly – and coldly – from her pale visage, ghost-white hands reaching out across the table between them. The warm portraiture behind faded to a honeyed grey, and the songs and cheers dimmed until Roland could hear them no longer.

"Come now, my Nightingale, don't tell me you didn't miss me," the Mistress of Luck whispered, smiling. There was no warmth behind that smile – no ice, either.

Roland frowned. "Enough with the pleasantries, Nocturnal," he sniffed, already missing the scent of good, warm food, mead, and wine. A nearby candlelight wavered, smoke drifting under his nose. It stung. "I'm assuming you've an idea what's happened to me?"

Nocturnal's smile disappeared, her lips thinning. "Of course I do. I'm the one who sent you here in the first place."

Of course – Roland made no attempt to hide his groan, his glower, from the being of untold power before him. "And where is _here_, milady?" His hands found their way to his head, fingers and palms resting neatly over his eyes and cheek.

"I have no idea."

That - Roland was _not_ expecting that. The Daedra were all-powerful, all-knowing, _infallible_. The greatest whims of mortals were but playthings to them, Tamriel's greatest heroes nothing more than toys, dolls. A menagerie of flesh and blood, all in a sandbox for the Princes' amusement. Only the Divines themselves could rival them.

For Nocturnal, among the most powerful of the Daedra, to _not know_ about where Roland had found himself…

"So you see our predicament. Our need for… _my_ need for _you_."

Unspeakable. Unforeseen. Unprecedented.

Roland parted his fingers, so that he could peer through the gaps at Lady Luck herself. "I… I suppose I do. In a fashion." He sighed, letting them fall to the table with a low _thump_.

"My sisters and brothers, we found this place by mishap," Nocturnal trilled, pale lips curling into a thin smile. "We've surmised it to be another plane of existence altogether – another Mundus, you could say."

"Well," she continued, before Roland could think to answer. "Perhaps more accurately, another _plane_ of Mundus."

Mundus – Roland knew it to be the realm that sat within Oblivion, which in turn sat within Aetherius. Aetherius was the plane of the Divines, an existence of magicka in its _purest _form. The stars, the moons Masser and Secundus, the sun itself, and all the heavens above were but windows, glances, into Aetherius. In turn, Oblivion was the home of the Daedra.

There was really no other way to describe it.

"I… I'm not sure I follow." Another plane of Mundus was, in great fashion, beyond Roland entirely. "Is it a parallel? Another planet in the heavens?"

Nocturnal smiled – at least, Roland _thought_ she did. "Not a parallel, my Nightingale. Another plane altogether. A plane that is… _untouched_."

Roland frowned. "It seemed real enough."

"By _us_."

"The Princes?"

"Yes."

"… oh."

Roland leaned back in his chair, his mouth hung open. Nocturnal only returned his blank gaze as a dark little thrush materialized on her shoulder.

"And you brought me here, to this… _plane_ of Mundus, to…"

Nocturnal smiled again. "Extend my influence."

"Only yours?"

The Prince laughed a low, chill song. "Directly? Yes," her hands came together, then split apart to reveal another little bird. Another nightingale, which quickly found its place on her other shoulder. "_Dragonborn_," she said, using his given title to the full. The dream around Roland wavered, for but a slight moment. "You are _mine_. You are more mine than Azura, Meridia, Hircine, nor Sanguine, nor Sheogorath could ever _hope_ to wager."

Roland circled a finger in the air. "And Mora?"

"Nevermind _Mora_," Nocturnal spat. "Or would you rather I left you to his devices entirely, to wander through Apocrypha for all of eternity?"

"No, I'd rather not, milady, thank you."

The Prince of Night glared, running chill down his spine. "It is only by my grace, and my _love_," she spat, as if the words were unfamiliar, foreign, to her. "That you are not bound to Apocrypha already, my Nightingale."

"Thank you." It was earnest.

Roland took a deep breath, waiting for Nocturnal to calm. "So… you want me to, what, explore this world for you?"

"Extend my sphere of influence. I thought those words were simple enough for a mortal to understand."

He shook his head. "Extend your sphere, what? How? By _stealing_?" Nocturnal's eyes glimmered silver. "Really?"

"Of course," her words danced as if on shadow incarnate. "I am the Patron of thieves, after all."

Roland resisted the urge to groan. "And the other Princes? How long until they send their own 'representatives,' Nocturnal?"

Lady Luck smiled, hearing her own name. "They won't be sending anyone else. Not yet."

"Why?"

"They don't need to."

Once again, Roland's head found itself resting within his hands, eyes shut tight as he fought down bile. Really, he'd no idea how he'd vomit in a dream, but he had no desire to learn. "Because of me?"

"Because of you." Nocturnal's dark eyes gazed softly at the nord, and had he not known better, he might have claimed she'd winked at him. "As for me, I consider it a, what do you mortals call it – a _head start_."

Roland sat silently – a second, a minute, two minutes, five. Hours might have passed in the dream – he could not know.

Finally, he looked up to Nocturnal, who only returned his regard in silence. "How long? How long until I'll speak to you again?"

The Prince of Darkness tittered, clearly amused. "Why, my little Nightingale, I hadn't thought you cared enough to—"

"_How. Long_."

"I don't know," Nocturnal frowned, as warmth slowly returned around them. The nearby candle glowed a dim orange, steadily gaining in color. Roland could hear the first few notes of a sailor's song, a hint of roast boar wafting beneath his nose. "You'll just have to wait and see."

"I want to see them again," Roland muttered a low explanation, eyes darkening despite the rising glow around him. "Serana. Aela. Brynjolf and Karliah, Brelyna. Divines, I already miss Paarthurnax and Odahviing."

His gaze blurred wet. "The enchantments on Lydia's headstone won't last forever, Nocturnal. Someone will need to take care of her."

"Time knows no bounds, Dragonborn," Nocturnal whispered. Roland could no longer see her. "I'm sure _Paarthurnax_ would tell you the same."

The dream around Roland crackled like a fire, and he rose his head to see that color, warmth, and smell had returned entirely. It was still a dream, formless yet physical, of the mind and of the spirit. Yet…

"Nocturnal?" Roland whispered, closing his eyes. The Prince was gone, had departed, but he could feel cool arms envelop him, close around him. She could hear him.

"I thought dreams were Vaermina's domain."

A pleasant itch formed at the nape his neck, tickling down to the small of his back like a mother's finger trailing upon trilling laughter. She'd given her answer.

And now, he knew, it was time to wake.


	3. Act 1: Chapter 3 - Slavers and Masters

**A/N: Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Took a bit longer, but I got there eventually.**

**Apparently some of you have shared concerns about an underwhelming Dragonborn, Roland not being up to par or whateve, especially being taken prisoner and all. That kinda confused and bemused me, but I'm pretty sure this chapter will assuage those concerns, at least to some extent.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

It had all gone wrong. So, so wrong.

How had it all gone so wrong?

Of course Malko, son of Yando, knew the answer. It had been right there in front of him all this time. Standing. Sitting. Kneeling, it didn't matter; the strange, pale man, his newest bounty, had been the cause of all of it. Half-cut with fire, and drenched in cold blood.

All Malko had wanted was a quick cash in – a tall fancy to bait in desperate buyers (for even the Great Masters bore the desperate within their ranks) and an exotic man from the west as the tempting product to sell off. After all, there were always Masters looking to fill their pit-fighting ranks. Gambles to make, books to break, and debts to pay off.

Malko had wanted nothing more than to get as far away as possible from that same "product," but he'd been proud. Avaricious. He'd thought to auction his newest bounty before running, and now he'd pay for that greed, the hubris that thought he could sell off a man who could speak crimson fear with naught but a single word.

The slaver captain winced, flinched, a scream piercing the woods nearby, unseen through a dense fog. It'd been preceded by words in a Volantene tongue – a tongue Malko recognized as that of one of his frequent clients, a Master.

Now dead. The slaver couldn't see the man's death, couldn't hear it, but he knew the Volantene Master had died all the same. Even as he crawled, elbows cut bleeding on the grey grass beneath – grass he could barely even see – Malko wondered how it had all gone so wrong, counting his steps, recalling his mistakes.

He could only think of the strange, pale man – Roland, he'd learned his name eventually. A golden goose egg, more trouble than its pretty sheen had been worth, though Malko only knew this now. It had been a trick, a deception, a lie, and had the slaver known the true nature of the exotic man he'd taken captive he'd have cut Roland's throat while the man had slept through thirst and starvation.

Another scream. Another dead Master. Perhaps his guards, sworn by blood and gold, had died with him. Perhaps they'd run – a smart man would run. Malko sought the same, but could only crawl as if he were a snail, scarlet blood running from severed femorals in lieu of a Tyrian purple.

In another life, another timeline untouched by Oblivion, Malko would have lived a long life, a slaver till the end. He would have lost his most of his crew in a stormy wreck, only to find great fortune in the capture of a clever dwarf and an old, disgraced knight. He would have died a rich old man with a Lysene whore's lips around his cock.

But in this life, even as an olive-green boot found its mark on his back, a bloodied blade set on his nape, Malko, son of Yando, bled out wondering how it had all gone so wrong.

* * *

Roland had been sold. Sold to a man named Dezhor zo Pahl; a so-called "Great Master," Dezhor looked to be a wiry little man, thin-bearded and thin-cheeked. Greed and lust lined the Master's old eyes – a lust for gold wrought by blood in battle, for according to Malko Dezhor fully intended to have Roland fight in the "Pits."

The auction itself had taken place in late morning, the sun rising higher by the minute until it could rise no longer. Slavers, Masters – Good, Wise, and Great, much to Roland's considerable confusion and detest – and the guards on their payrolls had gathered in force, meeting under the boughs of great yellow-green trees in a field of grass and poppies – too many to fight while he was still bound in chains and twine, his Voice still dry. A single stage dominated the field, caravans and tents dotting the land about. Far in the distance, he could see those same great pyramids, glinting gold capping their tops. He could only wonder what they were, what riches they held.

Roland wasn't the first to be sold, but he wouldn't be the last. Sixteen men and women before him had been pawned off, gold coins exchanged by the single, double, triple and ten, for slaves of all kinds. A tall, dark man he would have mistaken to be Redguard was given to the mines, wired muscles betraying great strength; a bronze-skinned boy, no older than fourteen had been passed off to a strange little family, fit only for labor and low; a golden-haired lady, lily-white skin clearly kept as clean as could be, had been sold off to a lecherous looking lemur of a man, misery marked mournfully on her sullen visage as they were all taken away.

He himself had been sold to Dezhor for no less than forty of those thin gold coins, clearly an outlier in and of itself. But Malko's story, adapted and shaped from Roland's own life, had clearly persuaded the crowd, price soaring higher and higher until Dezhor zo Pahl himself had called "forty" with a great élan, breaking the resolve of another who had called thirty-six.

Apparently the record sale of the day, not expected to be matched by any other, slave or Master. Roland had been the marquis slave, to his own bemusement – few other men could match a band of slavers alone, caught hungry and half-burnt by the sun.

Perhaps that wasn't to be the only reason his price wouldn't be matched, Roland mused as he was led by Dezhor and a paltry pair of guards into a peculiar tent. It was dyed a bright red, trims of yellow and orange lining in floral patterns about the cloth. Inside was a bed, and lain upon it was a woman. Another slave, Roland could tell by her raw, red wrists – unbound, in contrast to his own – and ragged clothes, cedar hair ran like silk down upon golden-brown skin. Her eyes, dark and glum and circled underneath, looked fearfully at him, yet also glinted a sheen of pity – shared camaraderie for a shared fate. She looked young.

The guards had stayed outside, banished with haste from a single flick of Dezhor's wrist. The Master's hands were wrinkled and cracked, a silver ring wrapped around an index finger. Dezhor turned, but not before laying a brief, lecherous gaze on the girl.

"You," he pointed with a bony finger, glaring at Roland. The Great Master's voice was low, raspy, and weak. Not at all like Roland's own baritone. "Slave."

Roland had long grown tired of being referred to as a slave. "That is what I am now, yes."

Pain shot through his cheeks, his sight briefly dancing white. Dezhor had slapped him. "Speak only when commanded to!" he hissed, pointer finger far too close to Roland's nose for his liking. "You know why I bought you?"

Roland grimaced, baring pearly-white teeth. Sharp. "To fight, I assume."

Dezhor nodded, finally retracting his wrinkled digit. "You will fight in the pits. You know what those are?"

"I know what they are." He didn't know what they were. The Master only frowned.

"Slave."

That word again, that name, that loathsome title. The nord fought the urge to snarl, barely hidden pride welling in his bosom, burning red like fire. _Yol_.

"Slave," Dezhor continued, sparing a quick glance to the girl beside them. "You will tell me now – Malko, the slaver I bought you from. Did he lie?"

"Lie about what?"

Dezhor's eyes flared with anger, hand raising in the air, ready to strike. Roland eyed his dry, cracked palm, narrowing his own gaze.

"His stories. About _you_, slave. Were they true?"

Malko had presented Roland during the auction with the same glib, all the same promulgations that a merchant would his wares. Nonchalantly, as if the slaver had done it hundreds of times before which, he supposed, was true, in a sense.

"A great knight of Westerosi fame," Malko had declared, flourishing a dark hand. The jeweled ring about his little finger had glinted in the bright, midday sun. "Sworn to protect his king, this slave killed _thirty_ deadly assassins by himself, with sword and spear and _rocks_."

Auctioneers, slavers, and Masters alike had eyed Roland carefully, spicily, like a fine wine, eager to taste blood. The crowds had, similarly, murmured in disbelief and curiosity at Malko's next words.

"Betrayed by his own king, this slave," he'd gestured to Roland, "killed the king's own daughter at her_ own wedding_. Banished to Essos, he craves only blood and death, to sate a vengeance he will never have. Bidding starts at twenty gold honors."

Roland ran his tongue along the velveteen roof of his mouth, feeling the cracks and ridge, before answering Dezhor. "True enough," he muttered. "They were true enough." He glowered.

Dezhor's lips thinned, and the old slaver crossed a pair of furry arms. His clothing, a rich tapestry of golds, greens, and reds, rippled as he moved.

"Then," he began, bent nose flaring, "you shall be my fortune. You will be my fattened, prized swine."

The old slaver took a step forwards, glaring into Roland's eyes. "Understand, _slave_, that should you fail, I will be left penniless. I have bought five and twenty men before you, and five and twenty men have died. I have debts to pay, and should you lose even _once_, you shall hope you died in the pits, for your next master will care even less for your life."

Dezhor stepped even closer, and Roland caught the old Master's stench. Perfumed, lightly hiding a rancidity beneath. "Is that clear?"

"Five and twenty men before me," Roland hissed before he could catch himself, quickly becoming irritated. Dezhor's nose flared, eyes tinged with annoyance and anger. "Not the smartest businessman, are you? I've seen better gamblers in _beggars—_"

Dezhor struck Roland again, bony hands stinging sharp pain across Roland's left cheek. The nord snarled, hissing as he matched the Great Master's furious eyes.

"_One more time_," he muttered too lowly for Dezhor to hear, a calm rage pooling in his chest, ready to burst into an inferno, _toor_. The heat of the sun outside felt cool, cold, chilly on his back, and Roland balled his fists, only barely able to hold back his pride.

A pair of burgundy eyes had briefly caught his own, and he turned, only to see the slave girl gazed upon him with fearful abate. Dezhor had caught their glances, and a snarl wrought itself upon his thin lips.

"Do not look at her!" Dezhor growled. Outside, a pair of guards rustled in stressed concern. "Look at me! You are slaves, and I will teach you the meaning of respect!"

Again, a bony hand raised to strike, the Master stepping towards Roland. His hand flew in, eager only to meet pale flesh and bone, to inflict sharp, stinging pain.

They never would.

Dezhor screamed, gaping at his red, bloodied hand, caught in the chained grasp of one he'd thought to be his lesser. The bones had been shattered, joints and tendons bent and ground against flesh and rind, wiry wrist all but ruined. Dezhor felt only liquid agony, and the wizened old Master fell to his knees.

An elbow to the nose followed to silence the Meereenese slaver, but it was too late – Roland had been too loud, too hasty, and already cries of alarm could be heard outside the tent, the flaps rustling as Dezhor's two guards rushed in with blades at the ready, curved like waxing moons.

The first rushed Roland, having already spied the crumpled form of his Master on the grass beneath. Before his sword could even fall he'd taken a kick to the stomach, feeling the air rush from his lungs as he spat blood. The guard hadn't even time to think before a pair of chained, cuffed hands struck his jaw, a rotted tooth flying loose as his sight grew dark.

Roland made to clutch at the falling guard with his bound hands, but to no avail. He eyed the second guard, finding that the man had only just gathered his senses, gawking between Dezhor and Roland as he considered his next move. The slave before him had, allegedly, slaughtered thirty men on his own, and here he was, having defeated his superior whilst still chained.

He could strike the slave dead – he was still unarmed, after all – but the ruined form of Dezhor zo Pahl's hand, and the limp body of his comrade stayed his hand. He could run, cry and shout for help, facing only the shame of having fled an unarmed slave. Or, he could—

Too late. One step forward and Roland punched at the guard's planting leg with both hands, knocking the indecisive fool off balance. It took only a swinging forearm to crush the man's throat, wincing wet air and blood as the guard fell to the ground cold.

Yet still, more would come – already he could hear the disrupted auction outside, more guards and slavers rushing to and fro as they called for Dezhor, called for his guards. Roland hadn't much time left; any moment and they'd swarm him, too many for him to take down unarmed.

The cuffs, the chains, were the first step – difficult to break with brute force, Roland found, but he wasn't a master thief, a Nightingale, for nothing. A careful twist, knock, and a jiggle and the iron binds fell to the ground, his hands freed. Next was a weapon; the guards had borne one each, and Roland crouched over the first, his body still warm. A crunching boot fixed that, and the nord bent down, taking the guard's sword for himself.

Second – he needed to buy time to prepare. Panic would spread quickly throughout the auction, but it was only a matter of time before more guards would rush in to kill him. Roland had _hoped_ to use his Voice sparingly, to rest himself and gather his strength before risking the Thu'um, but time was of the essence, and fate harried him.

Sucking in his breath, Roland closed his eyes, readying his lungs. It wasn't a particularly loud or throat-straining shout he'd prepared, but it was a powerful one nonetheless, and he'd need full concentration. Three words, a trio he'd heard long ago, in a realm of Aetherius he could only dream about again.

"_Ven"_

"_Mul"_

"_**Riik**__!"_

It was as if the sun and skies above had silenced themselves, the earth blanketed in a heavy mist – heavy on the earth, and heavy on the soul. Thick fogs formed around him, filling the tent with a grey dread veil. Roland knew it would be worse outside; already the alarm and shouts to arms had quieted, muffled, and what was left had been replaced by terror. Fear. Dismay.

He heard a whimper, a squeal of fright, and only then did Roland remember the other slave, the girl, who'd occupied the tent with him and Dezhor. He turned to look at her, finding the girl huddled in a ball on the bed, wide, terrified eyes peering at him from behind her knees.

He strode over, paying close heed to the muffled sounds of panic and horror outside. The girl shuffled back on her rear, shaking her head in evident dread and panic. Roland approached, but not before placing a finger over his lips. He hushed her.

"It's alright," Roland whispered, rushed tone at odds with his words. "I won't hurt you. Can you understand me?"

A pause. A single nod. The girl still cowered at the corner of the bed, little hands wrapped tightly around her legs. Roland pointed to Dezhor, limp on the ground beneath, before offering her the sword he held.

"Make sure he stays down. Bind him if you have to, and take this sword." Slowly, too slowly, a single, small hand reached out, fingers wrapping around the grip. "Use it to protect yourself, if you have to. But _don't_ kill him." He nodded towards the Master.

The girl's eyes widened in shock, wider than they already were, as if terrified of the very prospect. Roland turned to leave, but not before the slave girl finally spoke in a weak, frail voice.

"Where are you going?"

The nord picked up the other guard's sword, testing the balance in his hands, before responding.

"Hunting." Roland met the girl's gaze one more time, nodding gently. "But don't worry. I'll be back."

He could feel the girl's gaze on his back as he left, a mixture of wonderment and fear.

* * *

He'd been right – the fog was denser, thicker outside than it was within the confines of Dezhor's tent. Barely two arms' worth before him was visible, and were he a lesser man, perhaps Roland would have had trouble navigating the veil that blanketed the auction.

As it was, however, Roland was no lesser man, and upon departing Dezhor's tent, both Master and slave girl left behind, he'd already carved through six slave masters and their guards, their resplendent cloth and cotton caught with warm blood spilling from cut veins. Their guards fared no better – most fell to his blade, lamellar and leather armor no match for him, while a lucky (or smart) few fled, fearful of both the man and the fog.

Them, and the rest that still remained, had and were wandering the auction field, unable to escape Roland's miasmic trap. They'd lost one another, for the most part, guards and slaves huddling around Master and slaver as they sought protection amongst each other. Others had gone hunting for Roland, somehow certain that he was the cause of this black magic – after all, they'd heard Dezhor's screams, rushed to his tent only to find it had all but disappeared entirely.

Those that had gone searching were now also dead, and Roland hunted yet another slave master, bald head somehow still shining through the mist. His garb was a deep cerulean, trimmed silver in patterns of some strange animal; a woman's head atop a winged bird. The man seemed to be without retinue, panic stricken along a thinly bearded jaw and lips; he stumbled to and fro, calling for help that would never arrive.

This man, Roland knew, was the seventh bidder of ten that had participated in the auction – he'd had seen no more, no less, when that slaver Malko had brought him to the stage. Perhaps a lesser slaver, his guards were nowhere to be seen, and so Roland simply stalked the bald-headed slaver, watching and waiting, crouched low. Yellow-green grass tickled his knees.

He hadn't much more time left before the soul fog dissipated – while Roland was, indeed, the Dragonborn, he wasn't Alduin; he wasn't a millennia old dragon, the prodigal son of Akatosh himself. While the World-Eater could maintain the fog for time immemorial, Roland was only capable of holding it for a scant hour at the most, and even now he felt his heart strain, chest tightening in fatigue. He'd have to hurry, lest some slavers escape him and bring back reinforcements, hunting parties.

Yet, waiting brought no further bounty – Roland had been stalking the bald Master for near ten minutes, but the poor slaver hadn't found others of his ilk, perhaps abandoned in the mist. He watched as the slaver tripped upon a knotted old root of a tree, crying in terror as he fell to the earth. Now was Roland's chance – he sprung forth, scimitar twirling in the air as the slaver rose to his feet, back turned and unaware of his hunter.

A glint of steel was followed by a spray of blood, the tip of the curved sword suddenly protruding from the slaver's chest. A hand over the mouth muffled the man's screams and the slaver fell forwards again. Roland gently laid the corpse on the ground, body already cooling.

Before he'd even time to clean his blade, Roland's ears caught the faint _swish_ of metal through air, small and light. The Dragonborn rolled to the side, back on his feet as he eyed the small knife that had found itself buried in a tree beside him. Turning, Roland found ten men, armed to the teeth with a panoply of swords and spears and armored in lamellar and leather. At their head was a familiar man, tall and dark and not at all happy.

Malko's lips, usually curled in a humorless smile as Roland had found, were now wrought in a deep snarl, silver jeweled ring still wrapped around his little finger. His fellows wheeled around their leader, and Roland knew they meant to encircle him.

He glanced, very briefly, at the dead slave master behind him, corpse still twitching and shuddering. Heat flushed Roland's cheeks, lips thinning as he realized what had happened.

"You used him as bait," Roland turned back to Malko and his men, holding his ground as the slavers and guards approached. Inwardly he swore – maybe a minute or two more of waiting and stalking and he'd have likely happened upon the ambush, and could have turned it around on them.

He knew it changed little – it was simply a matter of pride, that he'd been caught in a trap within his own. All the same Malko nodded, his men closing carefully – they knew, to an extent, what he was capable of now.

"We did," the slaver captain said, and while Roland expected to see that toothy grin again, no such smile came. "And it worked. How many did you kill?"

"Seven," the Dragonborn answered. "And their guards. A few others, too." He pointed his chin to Malko, sword held at the ready. "Where are the other slave masters?"

Malko chuckled darkly, still glowering at him. "They ran. Cowards."

"They won't get far."

"The fog?"

Roland nodded. Though, another question begged at the fore of his tongue, curiosity sparked. "You used that man as bait. Why him?"

"Less powerful," Malko returned. He and the others grew no closer, wary of the man they'd surrounded. "No allies, no friends in the Bay. The other Masters thought him expendable."

Cut-throat politics – Roland figured no less. Regardless, his curiosity sated he knew there were still ten men who wanted him dead. Their leader was his priority.

"You sure you want to do this?" He tested them, matching Malko's gaze with a hard stare of his own. Green eyes met the dark brown of the slaver, and Roland saw within them treachery. Fear. A snake hidden amongst men.

Quickly, he weighed his options; Roland knew he couldn't call on his Thu'um again, not so soon, and while he'd never been the greatest of mages, bearing within him only a small reserve of Aetherius' blessing, he could still manage some basic spells and incantations. But, he still felt no connection to magic here, no window to the realm of the Aedra, and so magic was out of the question.

That left only one option, and while Roland spied a serpentine scheme forming in the depths of Malko's eyes, he knew there was one snake greater.

Malko signaled his men to attack, holding back himself. Roland readied himself for their assault, scimitar swishing to and fro as they charged, but his attention was locked on the slaver captain, who smirked as his men swarmed the nord. Roland knew his intention then – to run, escape from a man he knew he could not defeat himself, as his men distracted him.

That wouldn't happen. Roland reached within, touching upon powers granted by ancient stone and celestial constellation, and his green eyes glowed with a sickly sheen, locked onto Malko's disappearing form.

A jet of green light flashed between them, swirling between the guards and slavers alike before basking Malko in emerald. The man fell, body still yet unmoving. Petrified. Paralyzed.

All nine men left flinched at the display of magic beyond their recognition, and Roland seized the initiative. Nine men had attacked him, and in a maelstrom of steel and blood nine men fell. A cut, a thrust, a shunt and a cleave – one man found himself legless, while another headless. Soon, Roland was the only one standing, the yellow-green grass below now tainted a black scarlet.

His gaze soon fell upon a still form nearby, still awash in a sickly green light. The slaver Malko lay face-down in the grass, still as a rock. Roland knew he was still alive, though – only paralyzed, unable to move, to respond, and even to speak.

The slaver was only a few steps away and Roland slowly walked over, twirling the sword in his hands like a baton. When he reached Malko, he could see the man's figure had begun, ever so slightly, to move. Tense and tight, the core of his muscles still flowing with a magical, petrifying venom, Malko groaned quietly. The paralysis was beginning to ebb away.

That didn't mean he could escape. Roland clasped a bloody hand on Malko's shoulder, turning the slaver over as he left behind a crimson print. Malko gawked at him with bewildered eyes, flicking all over Roland's form above him.

The slaver spoke before Roland could. "What are you?" His voice was low, nearly a whisper, laced with fear and doubt and a bit of awe. Terror was etched across his visage, wrinkles and laugh-lines taut and strained.

Roland didn't answer, only returning Malko's stare. He placed the tip of his procured sword on the slaver's left knee, the blood of his own men dripping down the leg. A tiny little flick of the wrist and Malko hissed in pain, unable to clutch at his knee as Roland slowly cut it open. The nord leaned down, close enough to smell Malko's breath. It smelt of chicken.

"You're going to crawl," Roland glowered, still tracing the slaver's leg with his sword. Blood, bright red, slipped through little lacerations, until he'd finally reached the thigh. "You'll lead me to the other three Masters. Then, I'll leave you alone."

Malko shrieked, eyes bulging red as the sword stabbed, gouging at his thigh. He whimpered, feeling the sword now on his other knee.

"I don't know where they are!" the slaver whined, already feeling the flesh of his right knee being cut.

"Then figure it out. And fast, you won't have long." Roland had reached the other thigh, blood running thick. Malko groaned.

"I'll die—"

"Of exsanguination? Yes." Roland sneered, before thrusting the sword into Malko's leg. The foggy woods were pierced by the slaver's cries, muffled and broken. "No one wants to bleed out. It's a long, lonely death. But don't worry. You won't be alone. I'll be close by."

Malko's eyes had closed, scrunching with a pain greater than any he'd felt before. A small pool of red had formed beneath him, growing by the moment with more than just blood. He wanted to clutch at his knees and thighs, stem the flow as best he could, but his arms barely listened, taut and twitching.

"You'd best get going."

Roland's voice seemed further away, the blade no longer cutting at Malko's legs and so he opened his eyes, slowly. They were wet, his sight blurry as his heart raced and thumped like a hammer in his chest, but the green and brown form of the man he'd once taken prisoner was gone, hidden in the fog.

The voice wasn't. "Remember, you don't have much time."

Malko crawled.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed. Again, feel free to leave some reviews with your thoughts! Until next time. ladies and gents.**


	4. Act 1: Chapter 4 - Lemon-Leafed Tongues

**A/N: Sorry this one took a little longer. Hope you guys like the chapter - I had a little bit more difficulty with it, but I'm satisfied with how it's turned out. Feel free to leave reviews - I always want to improve my writing, and reviews help a lot with that.**

**One more note - my senior year in college has just begun, but I'm not entirely sure I'll be extremely busy. Time will tell, but for the time being, just be aware that I may take longer to update in general.**

**Until next time - enjoy!**

* * *

There was a cool autumn Tirdas, the twelfth of the Lady's Hearthfire, in which a roving party of Imperial _speculatores_ had been happened upon by Khajiit villagers and woodsmen. Perhaps naught but fifty miles north of the Elsweyr city of Corinthe, the Imperials' officers and leaders declared the villagers' loyalties to the Aldmeri unclear, unknown, and so when cuffs were tied and prisoners taken of all the khajiit who'd found them, decisions were made of their fate.

But peasants and smallfolk held no loyalty to crowns nor kingdoms, empires nor dominions. Only to their crops and their families, their lumber and their axe. The speculatores knew better – _they_ knew better.

When the sun was still high in the sky that day, forty-three khajiiti villagers lived and breathed and laughed and sang. At dusk, on the twelfth of Hearthfire, forty-three villagers lay dead, scattered in their jungles. No one cared for peasants, some would say. No one would care enough to find them. No one cared enough to mark the village on any map, after all.

Of course, the speculatores had reasoned they had no choice. A band of rangers and scouts lived off the land – no rations nor stockpiles to speak of, no supply lines to requisition from. Barely enough food to go around to feed themselves, let alone the villagers. No space to hold them. No one to watch them.

And they _couldn't_ just let them go free – had the Imperials been found, deep within Dominion territory, their locations and hideouts would be compromised. They'd be hunted down and slaughtered to a man. Aldmeri diplomats would come to the Empire, to the Imperial City, to the emperor himself, with demands, insults, and inquiries, and fourteen speculatores would be disavowed, left to die. Forgotten. Abandoned. Sentenced to die.

Just as the villagers would. Just as the villagers had been.

Roland remembered that day clearly. He'd been there, after all, some years before Helgen's demise. He'd killed a short-whiskered khajiiti youth whose only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Years later, when he'd found his own head nested firmly upon a bloody wooden block, sunlight burning his eyes from behind a tower of stone and vine, Roland wondered if the villagers waited for him – waited to cast judgement upon an old acquaintance.

* * *

Roland had later found the remaining slaves huddled amongst each other about a bough of lemon-leaved trees. The fog had cleared by then, the effects of using such a powerful shout now weighing on him in body and soul, and scattered about the fields and trees were the bodies of slavers and masters aplenty.

The remaining slaves – of which he counted five – watched Roland as he approached, expressions varied. Scowls, whispers, awe and fear. He settled his gaze on a young man, knees red and raw and settled firmly in the dirt below. His hands were tied with brown rope, wrists bleeding blistered. Roland could see he was young – very young, naught but a patchwork of chestnut about a soft jaw.

Another man sneered up at Roland, bald head cut, scarred, and glistening with bodily filth. He was tied by the hands to an older crone, crooked nose jutting to the side as her eyes crept down to the bloody sword at his hip and the naked knife at his side.

Sixteen others had been sold before him, and none after. Of the slaves sold already, he could find none – they'd all but disappeared, along with their masters. Dezhor, along with the ten masters he'd killed, had been the last to dawdle at the auction. Now, only five unsold slaves remained.

At once, Roland remembered that day, long ago, in the woods north of Corinthe, remembered a choice he'd made alongside comrades at arms. This land was as unfamiliar to him as Elsweyr was, and elsewhere would be no better – "Meereen" and "Volantis," "Essos" and "Westeros" meant nothing to him. Not yet, at least.

Absentmindedly he shook the curved sword at his hip, wet red flicking to the grass beneath. The old woman flinched while the bald man scowled deeper. Roland frowned.

He took a moment to look up, peering-squinting between the yellow-green boughs of the woods. The sun had already reached its pinnacle in the heavens and had begun to fall, creeping slowly down a blue canvas. Roland wagered that if the days and nights worked similarly as they did back home – and why wouldn't they? – he'd a few hours before dusk, and perhaps a couple more thereafter until the crux of night.

He looked back at the slaves, the five of them huddled amongst themselves in silence, before sparing a glance backwards to Dezhor's tent. There had been no movement, no sound, no commotion since he'd left, and he hoped it'd remain that way until he returned.

Though, he supposed, if he was to let the girl live – the one Dezhor had bought alongside Roland – why couldn't a few more unlucky souls?

"Does anyone here speak," Roland finally spoke, pausing as the old crone flinched again. His throat felt scratchy, dry. "Common?"

Three slaves looked up, one raising a hand. The boy, at the cusp of adulthood, and another slave, a burly, pale man. He had a beard, brown with a bit of white creeping through. He looked strong, but he looked away, shoulders sagging as his hand shook.

The last was the crone, grey eyes thinly cloaking a devious gaze. Her fingers, bony and cracked-pale, seemed to creek as they unwound, two pointed towards the skies.

"You three?" Roland nodded at them. Two nodded back – the crone held her fingers up. "What are your names, and where are you from?"

The pale man spoke first, eyes averted. "Orviss, milord." He paused. "I'm from Westeros – Weeping Town, that's in—"

Roland waved his hand, nodding towards the boy. "And you?"

The green of moss and dew clung to his ragged clothes. "Vasha," the young man whispered, voice low and wispy.

"And where are you from?"

Vasha only turned slowly, as if afraid. A single finger stretched towards the horizon, and Roland followed it to the city of pyramids in the distance. Meereen – he pursed his lips, turning away from the boy.

To the crone. "And you?"

The woman never answered, only matching Roland's gaze with her own piercing stare. He only stood in silence, letting the crone's eyes pare down his figure, before stopping at his chest, over the heart.

She was measuring him, Roland knew – he knew that stare, the steady appraisal of a cutter over gemstones, or a thief over gold. His worth, his value, his gait. Faintly, Roland felt his skin tingle, over a long-sealed wound where once a sword had struck true.

Poison had saved his life that day. The scars were left to tell the tale.

Roland turned away, to the other two slaves. The crone's stare never left his form – he could feel it on his back. Regardless, he supposed, while three could understand his words, two could not. One glowered, yellow teeth showing between cracked and bloody lips. The other was a dark-skinned man, darker still than the late Malko. He was otherwise unremarkable.

He glanced briefly at Orviss and Vasha, thumbing towards the other two slaves. "Can these men understand either of you?"

Orviss shook his head; Vasha nodded. The boy's chestnut hair, long and dirty, blew softly in a cool seabreeze.

"Good."

Nearby, laid within the bed of a dismantled wagon, were sacks of food and skins of water and wine. Most of the wine was gone, but the water remained, and Roland had found some bread and barley, cracked and puffed. Better quality than what the slavers had fed them, of course – provisions, not necessities. He'd brought them over and kicked a few of the sacks over, letting the bread spill out while taking one loaf for himself. Roland cracked it in two, feeling grains and crumbs spill from his fingers.

"Feed yourselves, and don't go anywhere. I'll be back soon enough."

* * *

When he'd returned to Dezhor's tent, he found the wizened Great Master still curled on the ground. He was awake, though barely conscious, a hastily tightened knot of twine and rope wrapped about his wrists. Opposite him, cowering in a corner on the bed, was the girl, whose eyes widened when she saw Roland pull the tent flaps aside. She looked terrified.

"Staying safe, I hope?"

He turned back to Dezhor, ignoring the girl's bemused wince. Kneeling down, Roland laid a rough hand over the binds – useless, as expected, but he'd said as much more to comfort the girl than to actually keep the slave master bound.

Dezhor groaned, writhing ever so slightly as Roland eyed the master's 'wounds.' Blood had dried over his nose, a layer of brownish-red scales formed over the bent and shattered bridge. The old man's hands, already wrinkled and frail, were now disfigured, fingers bent side to side. Pain kept the old man down, but if he played his cards wrong, the worst was yet to come.

Roland knew he'd the strength left to call upon one more shout, one last word, without danger. A short one, its power no more potent than a simple spell or incantation. He leaned down, close to Dezhor's whimpering form, naught but a whisper floating from between his lips.

"_Kyne_."

Roland stepped back, watching as golden-green lights formed about Dezhor's body. They flitted weakly, wrapping themselves about the slave master's form. He spared a glance to the girl, who watched with awed eyes, and when he'd turned back to Dezhor, the lights had disappeared.

The old master's nose had stopped bleeding, though it was still bent, broken. His fingers and wrists had healed, bones creaking and groaning as joints reattached to what little muscles remained on tendons. He hadn't been completely healed, but it was enough, for the time being. Enough for him to wake up, eyes bloodshot as the old slaver took in his surroundings.

Anger took him for a brief second, followed by fear. Roland wasn't entirely sure which was dominant. "You—!"

A gloved hand over the mouth quieted Dezhor, forcing his head back down, a muffled cry of protest all but silenced. Roland brought one finger from his other hand to his lips, before reaching down to his hip.

A metallic shriek, followed by a human one – he'd pulled a dagger from its sheathe, wincing as the girl cried in fear from the bed. Roland eyed her with annoyance, feeling Dezhor squirm beneath his hand, shouts and whimpers of weak defiance stifled between leather and fingers. It was for naught – the Nord was simply too strong.

The hand covering the slaver's mouth moved to the nape of his neck, and Roland grasped tightly around the collar of Dezhor's opulent robes, hoisting the man to his knees. Nearby was a chair, and he kicked it forwards, eliciting another flinch from the girl. Roland threw the 'Great Master' into it, taking care to catch the old man in the chair before he could tumble backwards.

"Release me now, slave," Dezhor sputtered when he'd recovered, wringing his bound hands as he looked up at Roland with enflamed hatred. "Or I will have you buried alive in the Dothraki Sea!"

The master's words wavered, faux fury laced with fear and fright. Roland could see him tremble in the chair, wringing wrists moving fast and desperately as a pair of bony knees bounced beyond their years.

"Bold words for a man so afraid," Roland nodded as if astutely, crossing his arms. With a brief glance downwards he could see the girl had also bound Dezhor's legs. The knot was badly tied, but it made no difference – the slaver was unable to escape.

He spared a glance towards the girl again, raising his chin to her. She only stared back.

"Girl," Roland tried to smile, but it felt fake. Forced. "It'd be best for you to leave. Don't go far—"

"She will go nowhere!" Dezhor cut in, spitting and stammering. His words meant nothing – the girl had already stood the leave, shuffling awkwardly behind Roland, leaving the two of them alone. Dezhor clenched his teeth.

"I am a Great Master of Meereen, and I will not stand for this," he scowled meekly. "I have friends in Volantis, Yunkai, Astapor, Elyria – all across Essos. _They_ will not stand for this, you filthy Andal!"

Roland stepped forwards, and Dezhor's eyes widened as he brought the dagger up. "Those words mean nothing to me. Give me your hand."

For all his threats and all his sputtering, Dezhor quickly raised a frail hand. Old, dark skin wrapped tightly around thin, white bone, but at the very least Roland could compliment the master's nails – painted and well-kept, filed to a neat trim about white-cracked fingertips.

Not for much longer. Roland raised the dagger, and before Dezhor could cry or shout or scream in protest he'd jammed the tip of the blade between finger and nail, stuck tightly within the slaver's first finger.

Dezhor shrieked, bloodshot eyes watching as a pale crimson flowed, slowly, underneath the nail. Roland winced – he only hoped the girl hadn't heard from outside.

"What – what are you doing?!" The Great Master screamed and struggled, tears of pain flung from his eyes. Roland caught one on the nose, and with his other hand grabbed at Dezhor, keeping him as still as he could.

"The more you move," Roland whispered, leaning into the old slaver. "The more it'll hurt. Keep still, you dolt."

As insurance he'd settled one booted foot on Dezhor's own. Slowly, Dezhor slowed his struggles, stopping altogether when Roland pressed a forearm into his chest.

"See?" The Nord began, adjusting his grip on the dagger. "Doesn't hurt so bad when you keep still, does it?"

Dezhor whimpered. "What do you want?"

"To talk."

"To talk?" The master's eyes matched Roland's own, wide and incredulous, as if offended by the very nature of Roland's proposal – casual, mundane. Not at all as if he'd rammed a knife underneath his fingernail.

"To talk." Roland smiled down at Dezhor, feeling his lips crack. He tasted blood, but this smile felt real. Honest. "You said it yourself, you have friends all over," he paused. "_Essos_. I want information."

The lack of great pain seemed to have emboldened the slaver; Dezhor narrowed his eyes, lips curling into a frightened scowl. "I don't need to tell you anything!"

Roland raised a brow, glancing down at the knife. "Right, you don't _have_ to, but…"

It only took a bit of pressure, the tiniest modicum of downward force, but Dezhor soon found himself shrieking in pain again, bloodshot eyes looking down to watch as the knife slowly broke nail from finger.

"Ten nails, Dezhor. Ten nails, and ten chances to tell me what I want to know," Roland whispered, smiling down at the slaver. Only a little more pressure, and the nail would break off – as it was, Dezhor grimaced and groaned through clenched teeth, tears spilling to wet his robes. "But if you start talking now, you won't have to lose a single one."

The Great Master warbled through grinding teeth, but he nodded his head once, twice, quickly. Roland took it as an affirmation, a 'yes,' so he slowly let loose on the prying knife.

"What do you want?" Dezhor mumbled. His head hung low, chin touching chest.

Roland smiled wanly. "Money. Peace and quiet. My friends back. Mostly, I want to go home," he chuckled, closing his eyes. "But right now? I want to know about that city of yours. The one with those great… triangles, far across by the sea."

"Meereen?" Dezhor looked up weakly, not at all looking like a master. A thin line of blood ran down his chin, dripping once. Not at all of Roland's doing – the slave master had bit his lip hard, pink flesh cracking, split. "Meereen, ancient and glorious? What about her?"

The Nord kneeled down, placing a hand on Dezhor's leg. Only the dagger's thin blade separated palm from knee. Clearly Dezhor had felt the cold steel, flinching slightly.

"Lots of things. Who rules the city? How large is it – and how wealthy is it?" Roland began. He traced the slaver's skin with the knife, twirling the point around in circles. "The people, the religion, the culture… the _food_." He took a step back at the last word, feigning wonder. "I do enjoy trying exotic cuisine, you know. The decadence of it all, mostly."

"That," Dezhor, for his part, looked overwhelmed, eyes glancing side to side in an effort to avoid Roland's own form. "That – I don't—"

The Nord smiled. "We could go over them one by one, if you'd prefer?" Dezhor nodded. "Then let's begin with its, rulers, its… _government_. I'm sure you, a 'Great Master,' might know all about that?"

Dezhor nodded, slowly. "We rule Meereen, yes."

"We?"

"The Great Masters," the Great Master himself said. His words were laced with awe, pride, but forced – underlined by fear and uncertainty. "From the Great Pyramid itself. We control the wealth, the slaves, the—"

"How many slaves?"

"Three for every free man."

Inwardly, Roland grimaced. That was a lot of slaves, he figured – while Tamriel was mostly free of the days of shackles and chains, long parted from the decadence of the Ayleids, there were still some who practiced it. Swore by it.

But three slaves for every freed man?

"Impressive, isn't it?" Dezhor's words pulled him out of his reverie, and Roland settled a pair of narrowed eyes upon the chuckling noble. "After all, Meereen is the greatest of the three, and greater still than Astapor and Yunkai combined."

Roland frowned. "And, I assume this greatness is built upon the blood of slaves? The wealth of chains?"

Dezhor grinned toothily, despite his circumstances. "Of course. Meereen is the center of all the world's trade – the trade of gold for man."

"And this 'Great Pyramid' you speak of," Roland began, turning around. He twirled the knife between two fingers, keeping it in Dezhor's sight. "Is this a palace? A plaza, a forum? Or a… necropolis?"

"It is where the Great convene. Where we rule, where we live, and where we eat," Dezhor answered, head lolling back in his chair. "Our wealth, our families, our animals, and, should we have need to keep prisoners – our dungeons."

A great palace then, a city in and of itself – perhaps not dissimilar to those _xanmeer_ found in Tamriel, built by ancient Argonians, he supposed. He had seen the pyramids of Meereen from afar, and the greatest of them all was topped by gold glint – the likeness of an eagle or a woman, he could not tell at the time.

"Any other places of note I should know about? Temples, slums...?"

Dezhor nodded. "Temple – yes, the Temple of the Graces. We bury our dead there, cared for by the priestesses."

"And slums? Brothels, taverns, anything of the sort?"

The Meereenese noble shook his head. "Perhaps you'll find them between the pyramids themselves," Dezhor answered. "I try to stay away from them, as filth like you might understand."

Roland noted the man's growing insolence and turned, twirling the knife once more. Dezhor had begun to lean forwards in the chair, but his eyes fell upon the knife and he fell back once more, frowning.

"Filth that holds your life in its hands, Dezhor. You'd do well to remember that." The slave master gave no answer, avoiding Roland's sharp gaze.

"There are also the pits – Daznak's Pit, the greatest of them all," Dezhor spoke again, head now hung low. "Warriors, slaves, brave nobles – even captured beasts, all may fight in the pits for glory, and to honor the gods. Also a great attraction, you might understand – money to be made from travelers, you see. And it keeps the people happy."

Roland nodded in understanding – perhaps like the Arena in the Imperial City, though without the religious connotations of course – Gaiden Shinji was, by all accounts, a secular man.

Regardless, something to look into, to investigate, should his paths cross into Meereen.

"Perhaps. And what of the other cities – Astapor, Yunkai. Slaver's Bay, Essos – what can you tell me about them? What of the world at large?"

Apparently that was too much, too broad. Dezhor looked up incredulously, mouth hung open and brows raised. "Surely? Surely I mustn't tell you everything of the world, Andal?" he spat, voice no louder than a whisper. "It would take hours, days! Far too long – or are your people that dull, and are you so lowborn that—!"

The Ghiscari nobleman drew back again, eyes wide when Roland approached with whetted blade. He'd tired of the slave master's fumes and whines, complaints and cries, insolence and audacity. The Nord scraped the edge across the buckles of his glove, the sounds produced hostile to the ear. Roland leaned forwards, drawing the knife once more between finger and nail, this time of the littlest among them, even as Dezhor scrambled and struggled in fear and terror.

"Understand, _Dezhor zo Pahl_," Roland snarled, lacing the slave master's name with venom. "That I spend this time with you purely out of a professional courtesy and convenience. I will take as long as I must to know what _you_ _know_."

He sunk the knife in, this time slowly, agonizingly so. Dezhor's eyes grew wider still, tears forming fast as his lips curled to show teeth. A scream, a cry, a shriek, was born deep within the heart of the nobleman's lungs but Roland snuffed it quickly, placing the palm of his other hand over Dezhor's mouth.

"I have other means of extracting information," Roland continued, finding his blade nestled firmly underneath the nail. "Not as painful, not to the body at least. But the mind?" He began to push the knife down, watching as the nail split from flesh and seam.

Roland felt a wetness on his palm, but paid it little mind, opting to push Dezhor's head back until he felt it no longer.

"Everything I want, you'll give me, and no less. Everything I need, that you won't give, I'll take. By force, if I have to." The Nord felt a breaking point approaching, a border, a line that wasn't to be crossed. A line so fragile that an ant might have broken it, weak and frail.

Roland crossed it.

Dezhor screamed.

It was a guttural cry, one of sheer pain and rupture of mind as the nail upon his little finger broke, shattered, split apart. Roland, as strong as he was, could not restrain the Meereenese noble, who shuddered and groaned and screamed and fell back, his chair tumbling to the ground as he clutched his hand with the other, writhing.

Carelessly, Roland had sliced the edge of the knife against the finger, and Dezhor sobbed, the tiniest of cuts stinging and burning worse by sheer nature of being placed upon sacred flesh, soft and weak.

The noble wept then, pain beyond all his years wracking his body and mind, but Roland held no sympathy for the slaver, grabbing the weeping man roughly by the collar. He threw him back into the chair, placing his other hand underneath Dezhor's chin, forcing the man to look him into the Nord's green eyes.

"Nine more nails, Dezhor. I'll use them all if I have to, so for your sake _and_ mine," Roland whispered, feeling the weight of the dagger in his hand. It felt heavier than it'd any right to be. "Just tell me all that I want to know."

Dezhor sobbed.

Roland let him.

It took many minutes – minutes that Roland waited patiently, hoping that the girl outside had busied herself with something; food, water, or some task to bring peace of mind. A peace he couldn't afford at the moment, himself.

But slowly, surely, the slave master's eyes returned to clarity – a small measure of it, at least, but a measure of clarity nonetheless. Word formed between his lips, sparred by sobs and sniffles. The man hadn't broken – not completely – and for that, Roland found some respect for one he'd assumed to be a frail, weak, and sickly old thing, but it was only a matter of time.

Or nails.

"Why?" Dezhor asked, his balding head now glistening with more than just sweat. "All of this, for the basest of information? Of cities and countries, continents and people?"

Roland raised a brow, but the man continued.

"Not for wealth, or war, or lost friends and fellow slaves," the noble spat, still sniffling. "Meereen, ancient and glorious – you should know all of this already!"

The Nord shook his head, smiling weakly. "You misunderstand, Dezhor – I _do_ intend to know everything you do, one way or the other. But all adventures must begin somewhere. To that end, my friend, let's pretend that I _don't_ know _anything_ about Meereen, 'ancient and glorious.' Let's pretend I know _nothing_."

Roland took one step forwards, and Dezhor zo Pahl stifled a sob, hanging his head once more. How long had it already been?

Not long enough. The sun still held itself high in the sky above, as seaward winds cooled the air between them.

"Let's begin with Essos. Is it a country? Or a continent?"

Dezhor zo Pahl groaned.


	5. Act 1: Chapter 5 - Interlude on the Bay

**A/N: ****Got this one out quick, didn't I? A little interlude, where I hope you've learned a bit more about Roland's psyche and background, and where we've gotten a better introduction to at least some of the first characters that we'll be meeting throughout this story. OCs for now, but we'll meet some canon characters soon enough.**

**In the meantime, I've also decided to start posting, on my FFnet profile, brief updates to progress on chapters - literally just the story, chapter number, and a rough amount of words that I have down at the time of the latest profile update. If you're ever curious, just check out my profile and you might get an idea of where we're at.**

**I also want to start getting some longer chapters out, but for now, consider everything up to and including this point a burn to a start of the story. From here, we should start picking up some pace; next chapter, we'll meet the other freed slaves in depth, and we'll be onto Meereen. After that, I'm hoping you guys start to get an idea of Roland's plan for Meereen and Slaver's Bay as a whole.**

**(Just as a hint: the Slaver's Bay that Daenarys finds in this story may, or may not, be wholly different to the canonical Slaver's Bay she comes across.)**

**One last thing - shout out to the Interesting NPCs mod for Skyrim. If you've played with that mod, you may recognize a couple lines towards the beginning of this chapter.**

**With all that out of the way: Enjoy! Don't forget to review, if you'd like - they _do_ help a lot!**

**Until next time.**

* * *

The shores of "Slaver's Bay," Roland decided, were quaint little retreats. Calm, cool breezes, seaward and sea-bound, made the loathsome heat a little more bearable; it reminded him of the south of Elsweyr, off the Topal Sea, or even perhaps like the Gold Coast, warm and temperate.

_From Anvil we do depart…_

Of course, the absence of slavers and masters made it all a bit more calming. Soothing – a peaceful venture, not without its own dangers yet safer still all the same. White-foam waves crashed upon the rocks beneath the sand-brown cliffs; picturesque, perhaps, accompanied by the golden-honeyed sheen of late afternoon, violet-hued crimson.

_For the children we almost knew…_

His "interrogation," if one could call it that, with Dezhor had revealed much about the world; the slave-master, wizened and frail, had fallen unconscious an hour or two into the session, pain and stress getting better of the man. What had still been missing then, from Roland's queries, would be filled tomorrow – Dezhor zo Pahl slept now, fitfully, frightfully, in his tent, watched over by others. Tomorrow, Roland knew exactly what shout he'd use; one that weighed on him heavily in mind, and would weigh heavily tomorrow on soul and body.

Its last word, of three, lingered on Roland's mind, whispering in his ears. _Dov_. Dragon.

Much had happened these past days, that the _dovah_, dragons, were expected – _mandated_, even – to bear, to follow. Slaughter, death, fire and blood. Perhaps he'd borne the soul of a dragon, as the last of Akatosh's children, but no man – and he _was_ still a man, or so Roland wished to believe – was built to carry on this long, climbing and climbing and falling and falling. Killing, and stealing. Trickery and death.

_To the Golden Shores we will return…_

Salt danced on the wind under his nose, and for a moment the setting sun, golden-blue on the Bay and the Summer Sea, reminded him of Lake Ilinalta. His cottage there, in Falkreath, seemed so far away now – dreams of a family, of a life beyond the adventuring and the heroism, and all the thieving between, farther still.

Roland had pilfered – _borrowed_, he preferred to say – a coin, of many, from Dezhor's pockets. It was gold, ovalesque, more like an egg, perhaps, than a roundel. A wreathed ship decorated the head, two symbols its tail. As he laid back in the cool grass, sunlight flitting between his eyes, he played with the coin, flipping it from finger to finger as it danced about like a ray of light. Its name wandered in his mind.

An honor. From Meereen – the greatest of three, golden where the Volantines settled for circle-silver, and where the Braavosi preferred grim iron.

It was thin, so thin, like a sliver of dew. Small too; Roland wondered, in the more avaricious parts of his mind, how much a Meereenese honor would translate to an Imperial septim. Not much at all, he figured. He'd been sold to Dezhor for forty of these coins - back home, a man lesser to him might be sold for five-thousand septims, perhaps six-thousand.

Either the people here were poor, living in abject destitution, or gold was simply rarer. He wouldn't know – Roland had only seen the shores and the countryside, thus far.

Meereen, then, would be his next destination. He could see it, in the distance, capped gold upon yellow sands. With Dezhor's unwitting – or witting, in a certain _grim_ sense of the word – he'd pose as a trader. From there, his plans were… flexible.

Whether or not anyone would accompany him, the slave master notwithstanding, was unknown, uncertain. Roland turned for a moment, looking back as he felt the warmth of the setting sun on his back. The slaves, Dezhor's girl amongst them, sat amongst themselves about a small fire, smoke caught on lemon-green leaves. Not talking – not much, anyhow. Roland supposed the only thing common amongst them were their shared slavery.

He'd freed them, after his"interrogation" with Dezhor. Binds cut with dulling knife they'd stuck to him, yet shied from him all the same. Their liberator, their savior – but dangerous still. Unknown. Strange; a stranger, cloaked in green and masked by shrouded secrecy. Roland didn't blame them – the bodies of the slavers and masters still littered the fields, and it was only by blade that he'd kept one of them, cut bald and filthy, away from Dezhor's helpless form.

"Why should he live, when the others died," he'd sputtered, translated for Roland by the boy, Vasha. "You killed many – let me kill _one_."

Perhaps, in another life, Roland would agree, but in this life he needed Dezhor, as much as carrion needed wolves to feast. So he'd kept Dezhor alive, unmolested, much to the man's chagrin.

"You touch him," Roland had replied then, shaking his head. "You'll die." And that was that.

The man was a killer, dirty and cold – this, Roland knew, having matched his green eyes with the man's black. But he'd seen, also, a sense of longing, a hint of courage, gnashed behind yellowed teeth rotten. Vasha had told him his name then, flitting and brief. _Tors._

He could feel Tors' gaze, far and away from their fire, settled on Roland's form. He knew not whether Tors, nor any other of the recently freed slaves, would follow him to Meereen. Perhaps it wasn't in their best interest, for freed slaves to follow where new slaves were made and where old slaves died.

"But where else might we go?" Orviss had asked, not only to himself but to his fellows. "Slavers and slave ships roam all over the Bay – these weren't the last of them."

"How far until we're captured?" the fifth had agreed – Darol, a Summer Islander, he'd learned. "How far until we're killed?"

Roland had no answer for them then, and he'd no answer now, even as the sun fell further to the west, beyond the horizon. Warm salt-winds slowly cooled, smelling like bread and… meat?

A body, a person, settled on the ground beside him, and Roland, even with his years of experience, could not stop a flinch, a jump, as he was caught unaware.

He turned, one hand clasped over his bosom as green eyes settled on burgundy. It was the girl, Dezhor's other slave, whom looked upon Roland with a questioning look. She carried a bowl in her hands, porcelain. It was warm, and thick wafts of smoke rose from its contents – white and brown, bubbling hot. A chunk of meat sat in the broth, accompanied by a loaf of bread cracked in the corner.

His stomach growled traitorously, and he pocketed the gold coin.

"Here," the girl said, handing the bowl to Roland. He took it, gently with two hands, bringing it close to his nose. It smelled heavenly. "Eat. It's for you."

Roland's gaze flicked, slowly, between the offered soup and the girl, who smiled warmly, sadly. He could see fear also, settled deep in burgundy and wrought upon quivering lips, and so he drank, hoping to calm her.

It _tasted_ heavenly, and Roland found himself groaning with pleasure. The hot soup was a far cry from the stale bread he'd been fed by Malko whilst a slave, and he likened it then to dragonfire, welling deep within him in warmth and kind greeting.

He found the girl smiling wider then, happy to see that Roland enjoyed the broth. He drank again, keeping one eye on her as he waited for her to leave, and run back to the others.

She didn't.

"Horse meat," she nodded, as if reassuring him. "The slavers, they had many horses. Orviss and Darol, they killed one. They were very nice. We've been cooking."

Her voice reminded him of a song; a flute, flitting like a butterfly across green seas of grass. Roland bit into a chunk of the meat, tasting it upon his tongue. He'd never been one for horse meat, but now, of all times, he welcomed the treat – welcomed it well.

The girl still hadn't left, and so Roland accepted this, acquiesced, turning back to the sea with bowl in hand. A pity – it already looked half empty. The girl turned with him, settling beside him as a pair of golden-brown legs splayed forth to stretch. The sun fell further still, violet rays dimming and dimming. Roland sipped once more, before questions picked at his mind.

"Girl," he began, and she turned back to him. "What's your name?"

She paused, and then answered. "Aranea." Roland stifled a chuckle, eyes wide for a brief moment. "What?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing. You share a name with a friend of mine, I wasn't expecting it." Roland turned to her, now frowning. "How old are you?"

"Four and ten years," Aranea answered, sharing his frown. He'd figured as much. "Or, at least I think so. It's been awhile."

"Were you with those slavers long?"

The girl shook her head. "Not too long. I'm from Lys, but the madam, she sold me to a passing ship before I had my…" She looked back, forth, side to side, quickly so. "My…"

Roland raised a brow. "Your…?"

Aranea only shook her head, unwilling to answer. "Nothing," she whispered, voice low and crooning.

Roland understood, turning away. A hint of sorrow shot through his heart, finding his bowl of soup now near empty. He could see naught but bone on what once been a chunk of meat, and as his eyes searched, almost desperately, through the bowl to find where the meal had gone he found his lips tightening, curling downwards. He hadn't realized he was so hungry.

"Did you like it?" Aranea spoke again, once more catching him off guard. Within, Roland thought briefly of Delvin Mallory, Vex, and Brynjolf. Why, he hadn't a clue.

"It was good," he admitted, nodding. He settled the bowl, in one hand, his right, noting at once a green flicker of light.

Aranea had seen it too, and she grabbed Roland's hand with her small, lithe fingers, startling him yet again. The object of her attention was on his third finger; a ring, a band of gold and inlayed silver set with a green jewel, an emerald. Aranea looked up at him, before flicking back down to his finger, as if some great revelation had been made. Up and down, up and down.

"Are you married?" she asked, almost eagerly.

Roland nodded once, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth. He took one last sip from the bowl of soup, before finding it now completely empty. "I am."

He'd found the ring amongst the slavers' possessions, stolen from his person when he'd come to on Malko's ship. Roland had usually kept it on a chain about his neck – more practical for the adventuring sort – but the chain was gone, and perhaps now he'd welcomed a bit of sentimentality.

Aranea looked closely over the ring, admiring the two-tone band and master-cut stone. The emerald reflected sunlight, prismatic shadows etched up his arm to the girl's face.

She dropped his hand. "What's she like?"

"Hm?"

"Your wife," Aranea said, as if it were already clear enough. "Who is she?"

Thoughts, memories sorted themselves in Roland's mind, streaming through his psyche. Foggy, unclear, yet crystalline in visage all the same. He'd been searching, after all – it had been a while.

"Don't you worry about that, little robin," Roland said, a small smile tugging at his lips. Robin – he hadn't a clear idea why he'd called her so, and Aranea's confused expression, scrunched nose and raised brow, tilted head, matched his thoughts with her own.

But something about her – reddened brown hair, almost burgundy, about her violet wine form, eyes flitting about as if eager to learn, to seek, as if hunting by pale moonlight. Her song-bird like voice only proved it so; "Little Robin" fit nicely.

Now, though, Aranea shuffled, holding hand in other hand as she wafted side to side as if a blade of grass in the breeze. She looked wont to speak, but truth, custom, or other, held her tongue.

Roland set the empty bowl aside, sitting neatly. "Something on your mind?"

"The others," Aranea began at once, as if liberated to speak, to ask. "They're afraid of you. Even Tors."

"They told you so?"

She shook her head. "No, but I can tell." A pause. "Orviss the most. He isn't very brave."

Roland chuckled, gaze drifting back over the bay. "Are you afraid of me?" Aranea only nodded. She could only be honest. "You don't seem very afraid."

The girl shrugged. "When she sold… when she sent me off, the madam, in Lys, told me we're afraid of what we do not know."

"And so you want to know me?" She shrugged again. "So you're not afraid anymore?"

Mahogany eyes flicked back and forth over the bay, settling thereafter on bare feet. "I guess so."

Roland leaned back, finding weight pushed through palms on the green grass behind him. He stretched his legs, letting out a small groan of satisfaction as tense muscles pulled loose. "Well, Aranea, we'd best start with my name."

He turned to the girl, smiling at her. The sun set further still, skies now darkening.

"You can call me Roland, and in my thirty-some odd years on…" He caught himself, pausing for just a moment to think. This wasn't Tamriel, nor Nirn, anymore, but it was all the same regardless, he supposed. "On this earth, I've had many enemies."

Roland saw faces, memories, glaring-glancing and beaming through the skies. Alduin, Harkon, Mercer. Ulfric and Galmar. Elenwen, struck through the heart by an arrow barbed-venom…

Miraak.

Sometimes he'd wondered if they'd been right, about some things. Other times, Roland tried his best to forget them.

Never could, he supposed, but he was wont to keep trying.

"I've learned a lot of things from people I've hated, or simply people I've fought," he finally said to Aranea, shaking his head. Golden hair swept into his eyes and he winced – he'd have to re-braid it, later. "Perhaps your madam was right about some things. Perhaps not. The important thing is, you learn from it."

Aranea shrugged, and nodded once. "I suppose you're right."

Roland returned to watching the sun set over the Bay, the air cooling by the second. Far, far in the distance, some ways to the south, he could see fires; burning hearths, perhaps, and many of them. Meereen was bright in the dark, its walls tall amongst shadows and beside moonlit sea.

It wasn't long before Aranea spoke again, another question on her mind.

"You're going to Meereen, right?" she asked, poking at Roland's arm. He looked down at her, frowning.

"That is my intention, yes." It was the truth – he'd go to see Meereen; see its sights, its wonders, its ventures and its shadows. Roland supposed there was likely some money to be made – money he'd need, remembering Nocturnal's mandate.

"How will you go there?"

An astute question, and one he'd already found the answer to. Malko and his crew had left behind their ship, anchored off the coast and loaded with belongings and provisions. He'd only have to throw Dezhor on-board with all the trappings of a decadent, slaving noble. Roland explained as much to Aranea.

"You can't sail a ship alone."

Truth, in most circles, but perhaps not in his. "No?" he chuckled, smirking as if challenging the girl. "Can't I?"

Aranea looked adamant. "You can't. No man can – the winds are too strong, they said. You need a crew. Everyone does."

Roland smiled. He had an idea where this was going. "And where might I find such a crew, little robin?" The Nord splayed his arms out wide, as if in search of something. A crew. "I see only leaves and trees here."

"We can come with you!" Faster than many men could track, Aranea had slapped a palm on Roland's outstretched leg, leaning closer as she looked upon Roland with an angry glare.

"Do you know how to sail a ship, Aranea?"

"We can learn!" The girl seemed adamant, voice growing louder and louder; loud enough to catch the attention of the others, who glanced warily from their fire. Aranea waved them off. "Besides, you can't leave us here."

He understood that much – Roland had wiped out what slavers and masters remained in the area, but so close to their home, he knew they'd return eventually. After all, Orviss and Darol had said as much, earlier.

"So you'd rather come with me to Meereen? A city of slaves?"

"They won't make us slaves there," Aranea reasoned, letting go of his leg. "Not with you. Not with…"

She turned, gesturing towards the tent wherein Dezhor lay sleeping. Roland raised a brow in return, confused.

"What makes you think he'll listen to me? Especially once we're within the city?"

"You're taking him anyways. Why else would you?"

True enough, Roland supposed. Aranea had seen right through his admittedly pitiful attempts to dissuade her. Yet, it remained all the same she knew not how to sail, and he'd wager none of the other slaves bore the knowledge either.

But, he considered, it didn't matter in the end, anyways. He'd intended, fully so, to sail alone, and the presence of six others wouldn't change that. Perhaps a bit of help at the least, should tides turn for the worse.

"Alright, little robin," Roland acquiesced, raising his hands in mock defeat. "You've convinced me. The others may follow, if they so choose."

Aranea smiled, warmly so. A bit of it touched his heart, he'd admit; warmth where warmth had long since left cool.

"But," he began, drawing closer to the girl. A frown was etched across his lips, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed as the sun began to dip beyond the horizon. Aranea leaned back, a cold breeze scratching across her nape. Colder than any wind here had any right to be.

"When the time comes, Aranea, you _must_ listen to me, and listen well. Our lives may well depend on it."

He retreated, letting the girl stew on his words for a moment. Brilliant crimson gave way to indigo in the skies, the waters of Slaver's Bay rippling with cruel and cold measure upon sharp beds of rock and bone.

"Am I understood?"

A nod.

"Good."


	6. Act 1: Chapter 6 - Plans and Potential

**A/N: Huge apologies for the tremendous delay on this chapter. I'd thought, beginning of September or so, that my senior year would be a lot less chock-full of work and I'd be far less busy, but that clearly hasn't worked out. **

**Good thing is, at least, I'm that many more months closer to graduation. Which is nice, I guess. This is definitely not how I wanted to close out my time at college, especially so soon after turning 22, but I guess that's just how things are. Nothing to do about it.**

**I guess, in a sense, the whole coronavirus business is a mixed blessing. Curse. Both, I guess. I have more time to write, anyways. So I got this out. Hopefully it's at least up to par, hope you guys enjoy!**

* * *

Nords didn't fare so well on water.

At least, that was the common conception. The chill winds and ice of the Sea of Ghosts left little room to nurture a collective tradition of seamanship and sailing; great carracks and caravels tread warmer waters farther south, paced alongside swift elven watercutters and drake-ships, yet the Nords were left only with their longships, crewed by only the hardiest and most miserable of salt-whipped beards.

Yet, perhaps buried deep in every descendent of the first Atmorans was a certain legacy; a wanderlust for the treacherous blues of foamy oceans. How else could Ysgramor's Five-Hundred have descended upon the ancient snow elves from across the Sea of Ghosts, death and retribution marked upon the breasts of their oaken-haft longships?

It was through this ancient heritage, bound along matrilineal blood, that Roland had some years ago found within himself a certain affinity for sailing. Aimless wanderings from coast to Gold Coast had brought him upon cedar-pine decks more than a number of times, and the discovery of the dragon-blood within him, with all its trappings of vocal nature, had only served to supply him yet another tool of the sailor's trade.

He hadn't lied to Aranea – he _could_ sail a ship on his own, in a sense. She simply hadn't believed him, but three words sang in harmonic tone put an end to her lack of faith – not a particularly powerful shout, but a useful one when an ethereal wind passed over and through their commandeered vessel, breathing life into sails and ropes. It had given the young girl – and the others, come to think of it - quite a fright, to see the former slaver's ship sail on full of its seemingly own accord, but Roland had paid his shock no attention.

When they'd heard of Roland's destination, the slaves had all but revolted. He didn't blame them – they'd only just escaped from the grasps of slavers and Masters, only to be told he planned to venture forth to Meereen, the veritable home and hearth of Slaver's Bay. The slaves Tors and Darol had been the most vocal with their protests, the former the more vicious of the two as he spat and glowered at the Dragonborn.

It was only Dezhor's appearance that had becalmed the two, albeit temporarily. When Roland had brought the former Great Master from his tent, he'd been a shadow of the shrewish old man he used to be. Stains of dried blood and other matter had undercut a glazed, silver-glow visage. His eyes, once brown with greed and hate, now only gloomed a violet hue as he followed every one of Roland's commands as if naught but a puppet.

In truth, Roland supposed, Dezhor _was_ naught but a puppet now. His will, weak and frail, had been bent, nigh broken, by Roland's shout. Now an extension of the Nord's will, Dezhor's influence in Meereen would be put to use; as long as the old slave-master could last, at least.

* * *

It'd been the first time Roland could see the stars of this new world, cut entirely from the vast expanse of Aetherius. With honesty, Roland would admit he'd no idea what to expect from this world's celestial canvas; on Nirn, stars were but holes to the realm of the Aedra, veritable founts of magicka providing mages and beasts alike with transcendent power.

Here, the twin moons Masser and Secunda were nowhere to be found, replaced instead with a single, tiny bead in the sky, pale as silver. The stars were, unsurprisingly, also unfamiliar to him, wholly so; his birth-sign, the Serpent would have always called to him from the expanse, despite its wandering nature, yet here he saw, nor felt, no such constellation, instead replaced by a sea of strangeness.

Yet, as he lay upon the deck of his newly owned ship, Roland found at least some comfort. White-foamed waves rolled beneath star and oaken hull, and far in the distance he could see the lights, fires of Meereen, their destination. He wagered that, perhaps, by early morning they'd make port.

Thereafter he… wasn't entirely sure what he'd do. For all his wandering and his thievery and heroism, Roland never had been the greatest of planners – schemes and the like were best left to others; Brynjolf, Karliah, Aela, and... _someone_ else. While Roland had excelled in the tactical sense, on smaller scales, the plans and stratagems had always been the purview of those men and women as Tullius, Isran, and, in some manner of speaking, Paarthurnax.

Roland wondered, briefly, if the old dragon – his mentor and, dare he say, friend – was searching for him.

Light footsteps on the deck interrupted Roland's thoughts, and he shifted, rolling onto his side to settle eyes on Vasha, the boy, who'd joined him. For a moment Roland wondered why, but he remembered how earlier he'd sent Aranea to fetch him, after she'd finished marveling the ship that sailed of its seemingly own accord. Roland had bid the girl find a cot or bed to rest in, thereafter.

Vasha's dark eyes settled on Roland's form as the Dragonborn slowly sat up, a nervous apprehension glinting in the reflection of faint moonlight. Roland motioned for the boy to sit, palm down and four fingers flat-downwards, but apprehension warped into confusion and the Nord rolled his eyes, coughing to quell his dry throat.

"Sit," he vocalized, lips thin as Vasha's eyes widened in realization and obeyed, quickly settling cross-legged on the wooden deck.

"You called for me?" the boy asked, voice soft and wavering.

"I called for you," Roland repeated Vasha's words, nodding. "You sound terrified. Is this a bad time?"

The boy shook his head, perhaps a bit faster than he might have liked. "No! It's just... what you did with the ship," he gestured around them, and Roland grunted in understanding. "I've never seen anything like it. Was it magic?"

The Dragonborn shook his head, hand reaching for his collar. "No… yes? Perhaps not." Roland thought again. "I don't think so?"

Vasha only looked confused, brows furrowed and lips sealed tight.

"Look, best you don't worry about it. Alright? Nothing you should concern yourself with."

The boy nodded, though he still looked fearful. Roland supposed there wasn't anything he could do about that, for now.

"Anyways," he continued, reaching around his back and unsheathing a dagger. _His_ dagger, as found amongst the slaver's pilfered goods. Vasha's eyes widened, but fear quickly morphed into confusion as Roland held the blade by its flat, offering the grip to the boy. Vasha took the dagger, slowly.

"Common," Roland began, lounging back on his hands. "That's… the language we share, yes?"

It had been a guess, back when he'd first found the slaves huddled together, frightened by fog and forest. A shot in the dark –

"Yes," Vasha answered. "It is."

Yet a shot that'd found its mark true. Roland grunted and _hmm_ed, brows furrowed in thought. "But some of the others don't speak it."

"They are not Andals." The boy spoke as if the answer were obvious, clear. "Tors speaks the Valyrian tongue. Darol is a Summer Islander, but he also speaks Valyrian."

"Are you an Andal?"

_That_ prompted a reaction out of Vasha – the boy looked at Roland as if he'd grown a second head and breathed fire. Thereafter he'd glanced at his hands and arms, dark and brown.

"No?" he finally answered. "My father kept a bookshop in Braavos. He dealt with many Andals, so I learned the tongue. But Orviss, he's an Andal. From a place called the Stormlands. Least, that's what he said."

An odd name, Stormlands, Roland mused, and he wondered if there were any significance to it. All the same, however, he shrugged, motioning towards the dagger he'd given Vasha.

"Alright, well, I assume you can speak this 'Valyrian' language, yes?" Vasha nodded, glancing down at the dagger and its dark blade. He could barely see it in the moonlight. "I want you to teach it to me."

"Teach you?" Roland nodded. "Now?"

"If you'd prefer not to, I'll take the dagger back—"

"No, no, it's okay, just…" Vasha shrugged, fingers tightening around the dagger's grip. "I don't know if I can teach it. And not in one night."

Roland shook his head. "No, not in one night of course," he chuckled, and he could see Vasha's shoulders relax, tension leave muscle as he laughed. "Just the basics, for now. An alphabet, so to speak. We have a bit of deck to work with here." The nord motioned around the two, before rapping a gloved knuckle on the pine they sat on.

"Oh… okay." The boy still looked unsure, skeptical. Roland supposed that was natural.

"Don't worry yourself too much, I learn quickly. Get me started, I'm sure I'll figure the rest on my own." In truth, he'd a propensity to learn things far quicker than any man had any right to.

Roland had wondered, in the past, if his aptitude for learning stemmed from the dragon's soul within, and the blood that coursed through his veins – perhaps the yearn to dominate had something to do with it. Questions for another time.

Vasha pursed his lips, setting the tip of the knife on the wood. "Just – just the letters, right now?"

"Just the letters, yes. Carve them into the wood."

The boy complied, carving the first of the letters into the deck. The blade sank into the pine far more easily than Vasha could have expected, and he yelped in shock as he found the dagger's hilt embedded in the deck. He looked up, eyes wide as Roland leaned forwards.

"Easy there," he said, pulling the blade from the wood. "Sorry, I should have warned you. It's very sharp, that knife."

"What is it made of?" Vasha asked, observing the dagger as Roland offered it again. "Never seen anything like it."

"Ebony."

"… The knife is made of wood?"

"What? No," Roland shook his head, chuckling. He'd oft wondered, in the past, why the volcanic, almost glass-like metal shared its name with the wood of evergreens found in the southern reaches of Elsweyr and Valenwood.

"Then what is it?" Vasha asked eagerly, appraising the finely crafted blade for a moment longer before, with an almost inspired twinkle in his eyes, glancing above at the night sky. "It… reminds me of the moon, almost."

Something he'd heard often, Roland mused. Rare as it was, ebony-forged arms and armor were valued for more than just their price.

"It's volcanic. Glass… metal?" He shrugged. "Not sure, to be honest with you. But it's strong and sharp. I suspect nothing short of dragon-fire could melt it, but still – be careful with that."

Vasha had looked up. "Is it dragonglass?"

"… Maybe?" Roland wasn't sure what that was.

Though… perhaps, in a sense, it _was_? After all, the nord mused to himself as a wry smile creeped across his lips, it was a black, almost glass-like blade used by a dragon – as dragon as one could consider him, of course, but Roland would consider himself more dragon than most, and _that_ was neither boast nor exaggeration.

Roland laughed to himself - a low, guttural chuckle that would have reminded some, back home, of honey on lips and snowberry-scent shifting from candle to cup. Serana would have punched him, a quick strike under the ribs where it'd hurt most, and called him an idiot under her breath to boot.

"What's so funny?" Vasha asked, still holding his dagger above the wooden deck. Roland quickly waved dismissively, shaking his head.

"S'nothing," Roland smiled. "So then, Valyrian, its alphabet. Shall we begin?"

Vasha began then indeed, a series of strangely carved scripts cut into the ship's deck beneath. Yet, Roland's thoughts wandered elsewhere, rosy questions wafting and poking in the back of his mind like thorny bushels.

How, perhaps, did the Thieves Guild fare alone, whilst their leader sat beneath one moon rather than two? Had Odahviing found his own way of the voice, under Paarthurnax's wing? Too many questions to ask, with far less answers than he'd hope to find, yet one found its way prickling closest to the forefront of his mind, cutting close like dagger's blade into pine.

Who was Serana, and why did that name remind him of honeyed hearth and the green jewel banded gold about his finger?

* * *

They'd reached Meereen the next day, its golden-capped pyramids shining bright over the horizon by mid-morning. At least, Vasha had said as much, and Roland – foreign as he was to this land – figured the boy had been trustworthy enough to take his word for it. He might have asked Dezhor, had the Master been cognizant, but alas he knew better than to trust the word, alone, of a man whose will had been bent and broken, even by himself.

Miraak, "estranged" elder brother that he was, had at least taught him that much.

Regardless, the appearance of Meereen, approaching at rapid pace, had brought to the surface arguments and resistance that Roland had thought buried by the last evening. Tors had, again, been the most vocal, his words translated (once more) by Vasha. He could tell the boy was getting tired of such a task.

At least it had been good practice.

"Returning to Meereen will kill us," Tors had said that day's mid-morning, pointing to Roland as the waves brought them up, down, up and down. "_He_ will kill us. Or capture us."

Another, Darol the "Summer Islander," had seen fit to voice his thoughts as well. "Are we sure he won't put us back in chains himself?" the dark man had argued, wringing his hands in some manner of gesticulation. Roland hadn't bothered to point out the men – Masters and slavers all – that he'd put down. The golden caps, bright reflections of the blue sky, had caught his attention.

And the crone, he'd seen her glare, her worrisome gazes. Roland hadn't even a clue as to her name yet, and it was clear she didn't trust him either. Three souls at least that didn't trust him – resistance yet to his will and command. Orviss, another question, and Vasha the punctuation.

It was all well and good. Had he been in their place, he wouldn't trust himself either.

Regardless, Roland figured, he'd given them their tasks, told them his plan. A salvageable one, of little importance and leeway for bends and cranks. The choice was theirs and theirs alone – to follow, or not. It mattered, ultimately, little to the Dragonborn.

The one he needed to count on was Aranea, the girl. He supposed it was how Brynjolf had felt, that one night in Riften he'd come bumbling into the Bee and Barb – the master thief had seen something in him. And now, Roland felt as if he saw something in Aranea. Difficult, near impossible, to explain, to describe, but it was there.

Potential.

The degree of which?

… Uncertain.

For now, though, as his newly repossessed ship pulled into the Meereenese harbor, Roland searched his heart, his soul, for a feeling that he hadn't felt in a long, long while. A burn, a slow burn, almost as if charcoal and cinders had found their home deep in his stomach; a nest of embers and warm cardinals, yearning to hatch and grow.

The beginnings of a plan. A scheme.

Roland couldn't help but feel… excited. To begin.

* * *

Khal Drogo was dead.

The Khal, Drogo, the Great Khal, Bloodrider to Qotho and dreaded warlord of the Great Grass Sea, was dead. With him had died the Stallion Who Would Mount the World, and perhaps even more than a bit of Daenerys Targaryens' heart.

Yet, upon a night as hungry as the black of unsullied sea, a fire that nipped and seared at Drogo's blood-run-cold had perhaps forged a rebirth. Ashes, burning-bitter of bone-cinders, lit a fire within a silver-haired girl's bosom.

A spark was all it was – ashes and cinders clinging to life where none could birth. But a spark was all that was needed, a roaring hearth where most could only see embers, feel kindle.

Drogo had died, departed the world a whimpering flame of ambition undone. But another was born that night, the first of three that might mount that world not as stallions, but as _dragons_.

Drogo had died, and Drogon had lived.

* * *

**A/N: Again, hope you guys enjoyed. Let me know, always, what you think? Reviews are always welcome. More than welcome, really.**

**And, for everyone's sake, hope you guys stay safe and healthy, and if you or someone you know is currently dealing with COVID-19, whether as a patient or a caretaker/healthgiver, I hope you feel better soon. You're appreciated.**

**All the best, and until next time.**


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